Chapter Text
A crew without a ship wasn't much of a crew at all, Stede was learning. It was a lot more like seven men squeezed into a dinghy in the middle of the ocean, one of whom was still a blubbering mess about two of the others having chased him around ready to kill and eat him. And those two sitting at the opposite end of said dinghy still eyeing him with a glint of madness. Actually it was rather a mess. Especially since he’d only brought provisions for one.
Despite this, they managed to survive long enough to make landfall at a small fishing port on one of the islands of the Lesser Antilles. Which island it was, Stede couldn’t be sure just yet.
“Where are we?” The Swede asked him as they all stepped into knee high water and dragged the dinghy to shore.
“Who cares, man.” Olu snapped, “It’s land. With people. That means food.”
“Indeed it does.” Stede said, smiling as he saw nearby men throwing nets of fish into barrels.
The people around them spoke in a Creole he didn't recognise, but between himself and Olu they managed to determine it had some basis in French. Stede had taken French lessons the majority of his young life, but he’d never found his footing in the language. He strode up to a man hauling empty nets back toward a boat docked at a small beat up pier. Collecting as much confidence as he could, he spoke.
“Bonjour!” he announced, “Excusez monsieur. Nous attaqués par des… pirates.” He held up a hooked finger, hoping to convey a recognisable association for the man. “Abandonne pour mort. Nous faim.” He held his stomach, “Nous devons manger. S'il vous plaît.”
The man blinked. His face was completely blank, without a hint of understanding. Stede swore internally and sighed, exasperated at his lacking skills. He was about to turn around to rejoin Olu and the others when the man spoke.
“Sorry man, I don’t speak French.”
“Oh thank god, neither do I, not really.” Stede rushed to say, and before he could pause to doubt himself he began to fabricate a story. “Listen, my crew and I, we are just a fair lot from Barbados, but we were boarded by pirates! Dangerous fellows too. They took claim of my ship then rather unceremoniously marooned us in our dinghy with no provisions to speak of. It’s a nigh miracle we found our way to… Where exactly are we?”
“Saint Lucia.”
“Saint Lucia! Oh wonderful, it’s a beautiful place, Saint Lucia.” Stede exclaimed, “I don’t suppose you could help us? We’re rather starving I’m afraid, but we have no money.”
The stranger considered this a moment, then looked to the dinghy Black Pete was hauling along the wet sand. He nodded towards him.
“How much do you want for the boat?”
Stede shrugged a shoulder. “How much have you got?”
The stranger produced a few coins from a satchel and held them out. For a moment Stede almost took them without question, though he could see it wasn’t exactly the fairest trades. But he surprised himself.
“Double it, and it’s yours.” He pushed. He wasn’t used to haggling on this side of things, struck for a moment by how odd it felt to truly need money from this man. He wondered if it would work.
The man laughed, and for a moment Stede thought he might have lost the deal. But then the man tipped more coins into his hand and pressed them to Stede. He pointed inland, directing them to a small trail through the brush that would lead them to town. Stede beamed, proud of himself. He pocketed his procured funds and went to report the good fortune to his crew.
Leaving the man and the dinghy behind, the group set off. It was a thankfully short walk, and once they reached town they made short work to find an inn. Bread, soup and ale was hastily procured then gratefully and quickly inhaled. Not everyone spoke English here, but enough. Soon the story spread from English to Creole that newcomers had arrived after facing the terrible, monstrous Blackbeard. A crowd drew around them, buying their drinks as Roach and Black Pete told the story over and over, each retelling getting darker and scarier. Conspicuously they left out the parts where they had been planning to hold a talent show and replaced it with great violence and drama that made Stede wince, thinking of the way Ed had responded to his portrait in one of Stede’s books on that first day together.
They stayed the night, then the next, slowly recuperating from their ordeal with a great deal of drinking.
"So, Captain." Oluwande said on the third day.
The crew were revelling in the attention from the locals, Stede could see Roach cheating at cards with Wee John and a few familiar faces from the inn. Olu offered him a tankard and Stede smiled across to his friend. While the others drank steadily he had mostly abstained, trying to stay of right mind as he considered the situation he’d found himself in.
"Yes, Olu?" he asked kindly. He wasn’t sure what the others would do now. If they would stay with him to reclaim the Revenge . If they would thank their lucky stars they’d been saved and go their separate ways. If they’d trust him to take care of them, especially now he had no funds with which to pay their salaries. He sighed, lost in his thoughts.
Olu shifted in his seat. He looked over his shoulder and Stede saw Black Pete standing against the far wall gesturing urgently. Olu nodded and turned back, pulling Stede from his thoughts.
"What's the plan? I mean, don't get me wrong we're all grateful you came and saved us, but, what about Jim, and Lucius, and Frenchie? We don't know what happened to them, and with what they did to us I don't feel too good not knowing, you know?"
Stede nodded along. He'd been having similar troublesome thoughts. Before he'd left Barbados he would have said his crew would be fine in the hands of Ed. That Ed would take care of them the way he had. And so much of his planning finesse had gone into the fuckery of his death that after that his only plan had been simply Find Ed . He’d been so solely focused on getting back to him -kissing him square on the mouth, telling him he loved him- the logistics just hadn’t quite finished putting themselves together. Stede felt his heart ache in his chest and he took a sip of his drink. It was cheap and awful, but for once he found the rough burn of subpar alcohol was a comfort. If only compared to the burn of his wavering emotional state.
Even in his dinghy he’d packed abysmal provisions. It just felt like such a sure thing, once he was out in the ocean he’d simply blink and see the Revenge in the distance. It had felt so simple at the time. If that damn Calico Jack, rest his unfortunate soul, had been able to find the Revenge in the middle of the ocean, surely he could too. But when he really paused to think about it, it was nothing short of a miracle he’d found anyone at all. Let alone half his crew, and then land.
"We will find them," he said firmly. More confident than he truly felt.
"But how? They could be anywhere, Captain."
"Well that’s where we start. Anywhere.” he smiled again, though he didn’t really feel it. “First we need to find the ship, then we find the crew. And to find the ship we need… Well. We’ll need intel. And for that we'll need to make our way to -" he lowered his voice, checking conspicuously around him for any possible listeners, mouthing less than surreptitiously "-Nassau."
Olu nodded. "Right," he said, but Stede could see he wasn’t convinced, a flicker of worry in his eyes betraying his uncertainty. "And how do we do that?"
“We’ll need transport… Perhaps we could find a ship, or boat even, to, uh, borrow.”
“Borrow,” Olu repeated blankly. "Okay, yeah. I'll, uh, let the others know to keep an eye out then. For a ship. To borrow."
He stood and retreated back to Black Pete. The two began a hissed conversation but Stede gave them their privacy. He raised his drink to his lips again, this time chugging down half the tankard. It truly was awful.
His thoughts, as they always did, went to Ed. What had he done when he got to the beach and Stede wasn’t there? When Stede didn't show up? He knew from what the crew had told him Ed had returned to the Revenge . That bloody Izzy Hands, who had turned them in to the British navy, had been taking the reins, as it were, while Ed barely left the captain's quarters. But he wanted to know more. His heart ached at the thought of Ed alone that night, how his actions, once again, had been the cause of pain to someone he held dearest. Had he waited for him long that night? If the roles had been reversed, how long would he have sat at the dock?
All night. He knew without question he would have waited until the sun rose in the morning. Until he was found and dragged back to the barracks to be punished for his attempted escape. And he knew he would be crushed too. Just as he had crushed Ed, bringing him once again to ruin. Just like Chauncey said.
He downed his drink, then stood, went to the beat-up bar, and ordered another. Shortly after that, things fell into a bit of a blur.
It had been a week. Ed may have thrown Stede’s calendar overboard with all the books and trinkets and frou-frou pillows but that didn’t mean he’d lost his ability to keep track of the fucking passing of days. Leap years aside.
It had been a week since he’d sat next to Stede on that beach. A week since he’d tried to find words that felt just out of reach. A week since Stede had looked at him and smiled and the last thread of Ed’s resolve had finally broken. Every time he closed his eyes Ed was back there, leaning in close, wrapping his arm around the back of Stede’s neck, cupping his jaw, pressing their lips together and hoping to God he wouldn’t pull away. And he hadn’t. Ed had moved in just a fraction closer, with a sliver more confidence and Stede had reached for him too, ever so slightly kissing him back.
And fuck if his heart hadn’t exploded like a firecracker.
It had been a week since he agreed to escape and run away. Together. To fucking China of all places. And it had been a week since he’d been left, alone on a dock, like some lovestruck fucking loser.
Stede hadn’t come. Hadn’t even sent a message with the guy Ed had bribed to wake him up and bring him there.
And now Ed was alone.
As alone as he could be with fucking Izzy breathing down his neck. He didn’t care that Ed’s chest had been torn fucking open for the world to see. He didn’t care how much better Stede had made his life, and how much worse it would be now without him. The only emotions Izzy cared for were anger, hatred, revenge. Bloodlust. He was glad Stede was gone, and actually he was the reason Stede was gone. The fucker had sold them out, tried to get Stede fucking killed. Set them up for it. Used Jack against him. If it weren’t for him, Ed knew he and Stede would be sailing aimlessly through the Carribean having the time of their fucking lives. And maybe he would have still kissed him. Maybe he’d have had a chance to do more. Say more. Find the words. Tell his Co-Captain how much he lo-
Ed yelled, swiping an arm across the top of Stede’s desk and tipping over the array of empty bottles that had collected there. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. Stede didn’t want him? Well Blackbeard didn’t want fucking anybody . Blackbeard tossed people from ships and fed people their own fucking toes. He drank all day and let good people be marooned without a fucking thought to stop it. No matter how many times he saw the questioning rage in Jim’s eyes. He didn’t care . Blackbeard never cared.
Ed had cared. Ed had wanted people, needed people, opened himself up. Ed had been weak. A joke. And he needed to do to Ed what he’d done to everything else Stede held dear, and fling himself off the-
The door opened.
Ed threw a glare to the intruder. It was Frenchie. Ed didn’t know why he was still here. He’d served his purpose, sewing the new flag together. He’d have to dispose of him like he had the others. Maybe get creative with it. Make him walk the fucking plank, a concept as stupid as treasure maps, but why not mix things up?
“What d’you want,” he growled when Frenchie still hadn’t said anything.
“Sorry sir,” Frenchie rushed, he wouldn’t make eye contact. “Uh- Izzy sent me, Mr Blackbeard. We’re low on supplies, but we’re, uh, close enough to Grenada and Carriacou to drop anchor. He wants your orders. …Sir.”
“Yes, fine. Grenada, Carriacou. Fucking whatever.”
Frenchie nodded, still not meeting his eyes, and left. Ed couldn’t help but think back to the party ship, and how Frenchie and the servants had given Stede the ammunition needed to blow those French pricks to pieces with just his words. And this is what had become of them.
What did it even matter? Frenchie was Stede’s crew, not his. Why should he care that he was being a murderous bastard to someone who’d once helped him? Why should he feel a stab of overwhelming shame at the thought of killing him, or any of the others for that matter?
Blackbeard. Didn’t. Care.
Blackbeard would- would… He sighed, his kohl smeared face falling into his hands with a frustrated groan. Blackbeard would be too fucking weak like he’d always been. Fob the job off to Izzy or Fang, Ivan. Fang has been a bit of a mess since Iz told him about the Boy. Like back when he’d first joined and tried to smuggle his mutt onto the Queen Anne . God that was fucked up. Who made a man kill their own dog, and for what? A statement? To make an example of the weakness of love to his crew?
He really was the monster everyone thought he was. Even without nine guns, glowing embers for eyes and a head of smoke.
It was no wonder, really, that Stede never showed up.
Ed slammed his fist down on the barren desk and cursed as pain flew up his arm. He shook his head, muttering darkly under his breath, then stomped from the captain’s quarters. Izzy was on deck, shouting orders and insults to the crew. Hatred stirred inside him at the sight of the man, like it always did these days, but Ed ignored it.
“Israel,” he said, striding across the deck, “We stop for what we need, then we get the fuck outta there. British’ll be on our backs, we’re still too close.”
“I’m aware.”
“I want you to send for the Queen Anne . I want a rendezvous in a week, max.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Ed nodded, still glaring. He started to stalk away again, but paused and called over his shoulder. “And get us a fucking cook. I’m sick of eating crap.”
Conversation over, Izzy resumed yelling demands to the crew.
Ed caught sight of Ivan and stalked over to him.
“Need summint, Boss?” he asked.
“I want you to keep an eye on Izzy,” he muttered, “and tell me if he tries fucking anything on land. Fucker got one over me once, ain’t gonna let it happen again.”
“Yes Boss,”
“And tell Fang to watch Jimenez and Frenchie. Don’t let ‘em leave. Don’t even let ‘em on deck. And don’t let Iz do anything to ‘em either. Not yet.”
Ivan nodded and scurried to tell Fang his task. Ed went below. He needed to keep busy, or else he’d end up sobbing in Stede’s stupid fucking bathtub again.
Cool air blew through his hair, the soft tresses gently tickling his face. His closed eyes scrunched up, his sleep lulled mind trying to stop the distracting touch without moving. He was just so comfortable here, surrounded by a pleasant warmth, moving with a gentle rocking back and forth. He felt all the world like a child being rocked to sleep in his mother's arms.
"Carefully," hissed a voice from somewhere ahead of him.
"I am being careful," whispered another voice, from above him this time.
It was enough to pull him just a little bit further away from sleep.
Stede's brow furrowed as his mind tried to make sense of his surroundings without opening his eyes and giving up on the truly lovely sleep he'd been enjoying. He heard waves in the distance, but that was normal. He heard footsteps too, muffled like the ground was soft. But they didn't seem to be moving away. More like he was moving with them.
He shifted and felt something tighten ever so slightly. He became aware he wasn't just moving side to side, but forward. He was being carried.
Eyes snapping open, Stede made to jump from his captors arms. He fell to the sand in a heap and scrambled up onto his feet, reaching for his knife.
"Woah! Captain, it's just me!"
He blinked. Wee John stood before him, illuminated by only moonlight.
"I told you to not wake him!" Black Pete was a little ahead of them, standing by a dinghy.
Stede put his knife away and stared at the two men. "What on Earth is happening? Why were you carrying me?"
Pete shifted his weight and looked at Wee John, who looked back. They were silent for a beat before Pete looked back to Stede, pulling at his ear.
"You fell asleep at the inn and, uh. We were just taking you to the ship…"
"Ship? What ship?"
"The ship Olu and Pete found." John said.
Stede frowned, looking between the two men for more information.
"Olu and Pete found a ship?" He asked, flummoxed.
"Look, we'll tell you more on board but the sooner we get outta here the better." Pete said. "Come on."
Still confused, Stede followed them nonetheless, climbing after Pete into a rickety dinghy, worse for wear than the one he’d sold just days ago. Wee John pulled it into shallow water, and clambered in after them. Pete took up the paddles and began rowing. Once they began to move Stede could see why they might be in a rush. The sky wasn't a deep endless indigo, but rather a sort of grey. He could see the very beginning of light peering over the horizon, giving the clouds an orange glow.
They made quick work away from the shore of St Lucia, and around the corner of the bay where overgrowth hid the ocean from view of the land. Stede saw a ship on the horizon, a brigantine, smaller than the Revenge but plenty big for their purposes. As they drew closer he saw Buttons at the helm, Roach and Olu manning the sails and the Swede standing port side, looking out for them. He caught sight of them, waving an arm overhead and calling to the others.
A ladder was thrown over the side, and once they were close enough Stede and the others climbed up while the rest of the crew rushed to set them moving. The ship was, plainly put, nothing like the Revenge . The sails had seen better days, repaired over and over by the looks of them. The deck was cluttered with water-logged ropes, empty bottles, splintered barrels and the like. Beneath his feet were fresh stains of blood, glistening red and tacky underfoot. Stede’s nose wrinkled as he took it all in, seeing more mysterious scars, stains and repugnant puddles across the wood as the sun rose into the sky. Stede waited just long enough for Buttons to lead them away from St Lucia, moving northwards towards Martinique before he gave in and begged for an explanation.
“And uh, how exactly did we procure such a colourful vessel?” He asked at large, a high lilt in his voice.
“You said to find a ship, Captain.” Olu said simply, “We found one.”
Stede nodded, eyes drawn back to the blood on the deck. It had spread, footprints littering the wooden board. “I suppose I did say that.”
Oluwande caught his expression. He didn’t exactly understand Captain's aversion to blood and gore -especially since he’d chosen to be a pirate when he could have really done anything and gone anywhere with the amount of money he must have. But he liked to think he knew him well enough by now to realise that he was perfectly capable and even happy to see bad guys get what was coming to ‘em.
“After you slumped over, Pete and I heard some sailors at the inn. They were talking over a bunch of maps and shit. So we went to ‘em and got to chatting.”
Pete, always happy to talk about his pirating prowess, strutted over to chime in. “I asked if they were looking for some extra crew and they told us about a job they had. The biggest job.”
Stede listened with rapt attention. He’d always enjoyed Black Pete’s stories, and this one actually seemed to be true, which made it all the better.
“What was the job?” He asked keenly, looking between Pete and Olu, his heart racing in anticipation.
“Bounty hunters.”
The voice came from behind him, and Stede turned to see Buttons standing tall at the helm.
“Bastard traitors, hunting the seas for pirates to exchange with the British Navy for a pretty fee.”
“Pirate hunters?!” Stede exclaimed, “So what did you do?”
Olu laughed, “We got ‘em drunk Cap, said we’d join up for the big job and they brought us out to their dinghy and right onto the ship. It was too easy.”
“So where are they now? The brig?” Stede asked.
“We knocked ‘em out. Didn’t take much, they were so drunk.”
Stede nodded, “But what about the rest of their crew? They must have had more men.”
“Aye,” Buttons said, “a watchman.”
“The rest were chasing bangtail,” Roach grinned.
“And what of the watchman?”
Pete delighted in telling Stede how well they had worked as a crew. While he and Olu had knocked out their would-be-employers, Roach and Buttons took on the watchman, wrestling him free of his own knife and stabbing him in the gut before slicing his throat. Wee John and Pete then searched the rest of the ship, finding no one. Swede helped Olu search the mens’ pockets, taking their maps, money, anything worth keeping. Including the clothes off their backs, apparently. Once they’d been stripped they were dropped down to the dinghy and Pete and John rowed them to shore, dumping them in an alley behind the inn. The watchman, whose blood coated the bottom of Stede’s shoes, had been discarded overboard.
“Then we found you and John carried you back to the dinghy,” finished Pete with a proud glint in his eyes.
And Stede found he was proud. They’d taken a ship, by force, with no real foreplanning or fuckery or even excessive violence. Just one murder, and really, one less pirate hunter in the world wasn’t the worst thing. He congratulated them all, and as the sun rose properly into the sky Stede decided to have a look around.
The ship below deck was marginally better than above. It was dimly lit with small rooms, and it smelt foully of grime and sweat. He walked along, opening each door he came to. He found a few cupboards, stocked decently with medical and cleaning supplies. He found a galley kitchen, and made a note to ask Roach to take an inventory of the food and utensils. Next he found a small room with one wall holding up three narrow bunks, the other a hammock. He found the hold, where a reasonable stock of gold and no doubt other pirate booty was stored. The magazine, with a rather alarming amount of ammunition. The brig, with iron bars separating the room into three cells. There was no light here, and it smelt rather ominously of rotted meat.
Lastly Stede took himself to the captain's cabin. It was smaller than his rooms on the Revenge , and far less lavish. But it was mostly clean and functional. There was a large desk, on top of which sat a logbook and a selection of rolled maps tied with string. On either side of the desk were some simple wooden chairs and on the floor lay a well worn rug.
On the other side of the room was a bunk, bigger than the ones he'd seen for the crew but smaller than his own. The pillow looked to be stuffed with duck feathers, and there was a simple quilted blanket on top of thin cotton sheets. Stede nodded to himself. This would do nicely for now. Although he did think somewhat longingly of his bath and library.
A knock at the door startled him, and Stede turned to see Olu standing in the doorway. He smiled and welcomed him inside.
"Marvelous work, Olu," he said, "this is quite the find you snagged up. Excellent."
Olu smiled modestly. "Just got lucky, Captain."
"Nonsense. You and Pete have a keen sense to suss out and infiltrate pirate hunters. And you worked together as a crew to overpower them too, that's really good stuff."
"I wanted to ask, Captain, what the plan is now. Are we going to the Republic of Pirates?"
Stede nodded keenly. "Yes, yes, but first we need to take an inventory of supplies, no doubt there's a few things we need. And I'll have to take a look at these course trajectories and the log to see what our previous tenants have been up to. Perhaps we should give the ship a bit of a makeover too, we hardly want to be identified as pirate hunters when we dock at Nassau."
He clapped his hands together, feeling for the first time since he’d found his abandoned crew, excited.
Dinghies full of booze and rations started returning to the Revenge just as dusk coloured the sky. Ed watched them come in from the crows nest, hollered to his men to hoist the cargo aboard, then turned back to the task of sharpening his knife. Or that was what he had claimed to be doing. What he was actually doing definitely didn’t involve Black Pete’s old whittling knife, or a piece of wood slowly being carved into the shape of a lighthouse.
He stayed up there as long as he thought he could get away with. Waited until the last of the crew with barrels of water returned and climbed back aboard. Ed wrapped his work and knife up in the worn leather pouch he kept his sharpening shit in and tied it off before climbing his way down the rigging. Izzy was already screaming orders at men carrying sacks and barrels down to the hold. Ed made his way over.
“I sent word to the Anne .” Izzy told him between threats barked at the crew. “We meet east of the Republic.”
Ed nodded. It would be a relief to see his old flagship again. To forget about Stede and the Revenge , leave it all behind him and go back to normal. He tried not to listen to the voice in his head reminding him why he’d stayed on the Revenge as long as he had. Why he’d put ‘normal’ behind him. How much he’d hated it.
He turned to leave. He could get more details later, and Izzy knew to raise the anchor and make their heading north once all the supplies had been secured in the hold. But a hand caught his elbow as he started to walk away. Ed turned back to Izzy, glowering with a silent threat to the fingers wrapped around his arm.
“One more thing, Captain.” Izzy said in a low voice, even more gravelly than usual. A smile barely hidden on his face. “Found this. Worth the read.”
Ed watched as Izzy reached into his pocket and pulled out a roughly folded square of paper. He held it out and Ed snatched it from his fingers. He unfolded it, frowning. It was a page from a newspaper.
“The fuck’s this for?”
Izzy growled, finally letting go of Ed’s arm. “Just fucking read it.”
He glanced down, turning the paper right side up and reading the headline.
SO CALLED ‘GENTLEMAN PYRATE’ MAULED BY ESCAPED JUNGLE CAT
Ed froze, eyes stuck to the page. Gentleman pirate. Mauled. A lump the size of an orange formed in his throat and he tried in vain to swallow it down. He couldn’t cry. Not in front of his men. Not in front of fucking Izzy.
“This had better be your sick, twisted fucking idea of a joke,” he muttered dangerously, thinking of the most colourful ways he could reprimand Izzy for fucking with him like this, each one more violent than the last.
“Just the messenger, Boss,” rasped Izzy. “Not my fault the idiot got himself killed.”
Ed shoved Izzy then. Barely aware of his own movements as he grabbed Izzy by the front of his shirt and hauled him off his feet, slamming him against the starboard side rail and pushing him back until he was precariously overbalanced. Ed’s grip the only thing stopping him from falling over the side and into the water.
“Don’t think I don’t know this is your fault. You went behind our backs. You made a deal with the fucking devil. You put him on that bullshit island. If he’s dead, it is on you .” Ed hissed against Izzy’s ear.
“It would have happened eventually. It should have happened earlier, but you got soft for him, Captain. I just cut to the fucking chase.”
Ed pulled back, unable to make himself shove Izzy overboard. Hating himself for it. Hating himself for wanting it. Izzy stumbled back to his feet, catching his balance and stepping away from the rail. Ed shoved the scrunched piece of newspaper roughly into his pocket. Izzy had that fucking twinkle in his eye. That fucked up one he always got whenever Ed roughed him up. Like he enjoyed it. Got off on it.
But his anger out-weighed his disgust. Ed pulled a fist back without a second thought, and punched his First Mate square in the face, feeling his nose crack satisfyingly beneath his knuckles. Blood washed down over his mouth.
Ed turned away, glaring at anyone who stopped to stare.
He slammed the door to his cabin shut and locked it. Then he went right to the empty bookcase and opened the only untouched place in Stede’s quarters. The auxiliary wardrobe.
He hadn’t been able to bring himself to destroy it or its contents. But he hadn’t been able to go inside either. Everything was as it had been the day they were taken. And while the rest of the Captain’s quarters had lost the lingering scent of its former Captain, in here… Ed inhaled deeply through his nose. Yes. Still there. Lavender and cedar. And something else, almost like oranges. The smell of him was faint, Ed hadn’t seen Stede wear even half of the clothes in here. But it was there, and it was enough.
Shakily, Ed pulled the crumpled newspaper from his pocket. He smoothed it out as best he could without smudging the ink, then he began to slowly read.
[[alt text: an illustration of Stede covered in blood, leaning against a pole with a broken bouquet in his hands. The image is captions 'THE GENTLEMAN PYRATE MOMENETS BEFORE MEETING A FATE MOST GRUESOME.' Next to this illustration is an article that reads:
Major Stede Bonnet, known of late as The Gentleman Pyrate, a Barbadian land owner and man of uncertain mind was kill’d most vyciously and publicly in the streets of Bridgetown, Barbadoes. Bonnet’s recent return from his sojourn into pyracy was cut short this past Sunday afternoon. Set uppon by an escaped jungle cat, Bonnet was maul’d by the animal. Briefly able to placate the beast, Bonnet was able to take leave of it, only to be struck by passing horse and carte, and his body crush’d by a falling piano thereon.
The Widow Bonnet, who bore wytnesse to her husband’s vyolent death, as did many of Bridgetown’s populace, was inconsolable. Overcome with gryef she wept over her husband's corpse, her loud cryes only ceasing once the local Doctor saw to her and prescrybed Laudanum.
The jungle cat was caught without further bloodshed.]]
This couldn’t be right. He couldn’t be dead. He had only just seen him, only just kissed him. It had only been a week .
The man had been stabbed and hanged and stabbed again and lived to tell the tale. He’d gone head to head with Izzy and lived, twice. He’d burnt down a fucking ship, turned the Revenge into a shitting lighthouse to evade the Spanish. How could he be dead?
Ed didn’t know how he’d made it to the floor.
His hands shook, his vision blurring and he realised belatedly tears were pouring down his face. He couldn’t see the room around him, couldn’t feel the ship swaying in the waves, or the hunger that clawed at his stomach. Time passed around him, the room getting darker and darker, then lighter again without Ed noticing. Time was irrelevant. Every moment that passed was another moment without Stede in the world, and that wasn’t worth keeping track of.
All he had in the world was this feeling. He floated in this pain, curled into himself, clutching at his hair, and his face, at the coats that hung around him. Tears, snot and kohl stained fine silks as he buried his face in them. Lavender haunted his senses.
Stede was dead.
He’d left him. Abandoned him and their future together. And within days he was just gone.
Over the next few days Stede really sorely felt Lucius’ absence. He was now the only one of his crew able to read or write, and thus he was needed a lot more. He was the one who had to read over all the logs, notes, course details, records. They were well kept, precisely detailed, and dreadfully dull. And when he wasn’t doing that he was writing his own logs and notes and course details and records. He needed to keep track of their inventory, their stocks of food and wealth and other supplies. He was constantly making lists, what they could sell, what they needed to stock up on, plans for possible headings.
He was also now the one to document everything that had happened since leaving the Revenge . And on top of that, he still had his Captainly duties to see to. Maintaining morale, talking things through as a crew, soothing grievances, resolving squabbles, guiding Buttons as to their heading, overseeing the general running of the ship and holding Black Pete every time he sobbed about Lucius.
It was overall very draining. Exhausting. But still when the sun went down each night, Stede barely slept at all. He would toss in his bunk, drifting in and out of restless dreams. Dreams of Ed. Of their kiss. Of Chauncey. All the blood, so much blood. Dreams of running through the trees, desperate to get away. To go home. Dreams of drowning, reaching out for Ed who just stood and watched, unmoving. Each night he would give up well before dawn broke. He spent the early hours out on deck, watching the waters around them, never admitting to himself that he was actually scanning the horizon for the familiar sails of the Revenge .
They sailed north for the first few days, not wanting to port too soon after stealing their vessel. But eventually needs must, and they had to briefly stop in Guadeloupe for supplies. They bought barrels of water and extra food, all the usual supplies. As well as a few things Stede collected himself.
"What's this Captain?" Asked Olu curiously as he poked through the flour sack Stede had used as a knapsack.
"Resources," Stede told him proudly, "we don't want anyone finding out a dead man is captaining a stolen ship, so I've bought a few things to help keep up the fuckery."
A few things turned out to be sanding blocks, a tin of paint and some brushes, a bundle of folded fabrics tied with string, a pair of shears, a small book of needles, multiple spindles of thread, a jar of coconut oil and from his other hand, an entire bucket of what looked to be walnut shells.
Pete and the Swede sat on swings over the rails of the ship, sanding away the old name of Poursuivant. Stede carefully wrote out the new name he had thought of, making sure to use his clearest, least embellished cursive, the kind he would use to help Alma practise her penmanship. Roach had the steadiest hands, no doubt from his skill as a surgeon and chef, so he was tasked with copying each letter, one by one, with the paint Stede had bought. When he was finished the ship had been rechristened Atonement .
But the ship wasn’t the only thing that needed renaming and a lick of paint. Stede announced to the crew over breakfast one day after they’d left Guadeloupe that they weren’t to call him Stede Bonnet in public any longer. Stede Bonnet he told them, had died -rather spectacularly- in Barbados.
“But you’re right here, in front of us,” said Wee John, “how can you be dead?”
“Are you a ghost?” Asked Pete,
“A vampire?” Asked Swede,
“A witch!” Exclaimed Roach,
“No, no, no, no, no,” Stede cut them off quickly, before they got completely off track, “I’m not actually dead. But publicly, in the eyes of the law, people think that I’m dead. It’s all part of my fuckery. Quite an amazing one, if I do say so myself.”
“So… you’re not dead?” Asked Wee John with a deep frown.
“No. But we need everyone to think I am. Or the British Navy will be back on me like a fly on a horse.”
He paused for a moment, searching everyone’s faces to determine whether they understood.
“So from now on I’m no longer Captain Stede Bonnet. I’m Captain Thomas Edwards.”
Stede smiled widely at his crew as he said it, but inside he ached. Thomas Edwards wasn’t a name he plucked from nowhere. It was one he had spent giddy hours thinking over and over, playing with the way it sounded in his head while doing his best to appear inconspicuous and not at all like he was planning to run away in the middle of the night. He followed the strict nightly routine at the barracks. Dinner, washing, a half hour to sit by himself while the other men played with a contraband deck of cards. At lights out he climbed into the top bunk and stared with wide open eyes up to the ceiling.
He thought of so many names. Names of authors he liked, and favourite characters. He thought of Shakespeare, poetry, adventurers. He thought of his family. He had a grandfather, his mother’s father. As a young boy he had always been so kind with Stede, and so patient. He’d told Stede about the animals and the plants on his father’s estate. But he’d died during Stede’s first year away at boarding school, and his parents had refused to let him return home for the funeral. When Mary was expecting Alma he had brought the name to her as an option for a boy. And again with Louis. But Mary hadn’t liked it, and Stede didn’t want to strain his marriage anymore than it already was, and he’d dropped it without explaining.
But it was okay. He could use it now. Thomas.
He’d need a last name too of course. Nervous energy radiated through him and subconsciously Stede had touched a hand ever so gently to his lips. He thought about the feeling of Ed’s lips on his. About their plan. Their future. Running away together, and an intoxicating rush of happiness swelled in his chest. It was simple then, to choose his new surname. What else could it possibly be when through and through, he was Edward’s?
Looking back on that now it was almost comical.
He had freely chosen to take Ed’s name as his own, to run away together and spend hopefully the rest of their lives with each other. He had essentially married himself to Ed and not once had he paused to think maybe he was in love. Ed had kissed him for Christ’s sake. Had given up piracy! If Stede had known then what it was that drew him so entirely into Ed’s orbit, things could have been so different. Maybe Chauncey’s words wouldn’t have felt so damn real .
Maybe fear wouldn’t have latched onto him quite so tightly. Maybe instead of standing on the deck of a stolen ship he would be on the Revenge , wrapped only in Ed’s arms.
“You’ll have the week to get used to the change, and then in Nassau we put it into action!” He continued his announcement.
Everyone nodded, and he had them practice together in chorus a few times. Captain Thomas. Captain Edwards. Captain Thomas Edwards.
He spent the rest of the day completing his transformation. He had Roach assist him in the kitchen, cracking open about seven of his walnut shells with Roach’s mallet, and boiling a large pot of water. They added the shells and continued to let them boil a while before setting it aside too cool. Stede prepared himself with a generous spread of coconut oil over his ears, nape and hairline and Roach dutifully carried the pot of blackened water onto deck.
Stede spent the afternoon reclined over a wooden bench, his neck dangling over the end to submerge his hair into the bucket of walnut water. He lay that way for perhaps a half an hour, then let his hair dry in the afternoon sun, a rag draped around his neck to catch the drips.
The end result was a dark ashen brown. He combed it into his usual refined curls and took up the small hand mirror he’d found amongst the previous ship captain’s belongings. The colour was not dissimilar to Mary's. It rather suited him too, he thought with some surprise. He looked sort of… handsome. And as much as he tried, Stede couldn’t help but wonder if Ed would think so too.
The final step of their claim over this stolen ship was undertaken that same afternoon. Stede, from his place on the bench, guided Wee John and Pete to work together on a new flag. But this time he had a specific design in mind. He guided them on what he wanted, letting them take the fabrics he’d bought in black, red, white and yellow. With a drawing in hand, and Stede’s micromanagement from the bench, they were able to sew together exactly what he had wanted.
A black flag, upon which rose a tower of red and white triangles. Topped with a death's head, and on either side two large flares of yellow. Beams of light. He hoped Ed would understand if he saw it approaching. He was supposed to be a lighthouse for his family, and in the end he had been, guiding them away from him and his newfound piratical life. He only hoped Ed would deign to be his keeper.