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Billy Bones finished tying the final knot in the rigging and gave it one last hard tug before climbing down to the deck below.
“Perfect,” came a raspy voice from behind him. He turned to see Charles Vane approach. “I’ve come to expect nothing less from you, though. You do live up to your reputation.”
Billy turned away without responding and ignored the praise. He still didn’t trust Vane. His presence on the ship mixed with the aftermath of Charles Town were making for a tense journey home.
“I need to see Flint,” Vane stated flatly. “We have matters to discuss.”
Billy kept his back turned, answering, “Not now. The Captain’s busy.”
“The Captain is drunk,” Vane corrected. “Again.”
Billy didn’t deny the accusation. It had been two days since Charles Town. Two days since Vane had been crucial in rescuing Flint. Two days since they had reigned hell down on that city and declared war on civilization. Forty-eight hours since Flint had welcomed Charles fucking Vane of all people onto their ship. Vane had been surprisingly helpful, holding his men in check and aiding the crew in repairing the forestay as best as possible, getting them back to sea. It had been two days since Flint had entered his cabin with a bottle of whiskey and not exited yet. Two days and Billy still didn’t know what the fuck was going on.
“Captain Flint is . . . He’s caring for Mr. Silver, his new quartermaster.”
Vane smirked at the obvious lie. “Why are you so loyal to him? Even now. And don’t say it’s your crew. If it were them, you’d have seen him deposed months ago.”
Billy opened his mouth to answer but found he had none. In the past, he’d told himself he did this to protect his brothers. He had truly believed that Flint’s plan to gain them pardons was the only way to ensure their future. That was gone now, he knew. Blown to hell along with Charles Town. What lay on the horizon for them was war.
“Take some of your men and check the mainstay, would you,” Billy requested, turning his back and walking away.
A pit had settled in his stomach since Charles Town and Vane’s questioning just made it worse. It was a sick feeling he had not experienced since he was a lad.
Helplessness. He felt helpless. And afraid.
He wasn’t a man who feared many things in life. He had had his moments of being scared, like any sane man. When he’d been taken from his home by the press gang. Those early days in servitude, before acceptance had sank in. The day the “Walrus” had captured the ship that had been his prison for three years. His first time claiming a prize with his new-found pirate family. When he’d been fished out of the ocean by the “Scarborough”. He didn’t fear death anymore, though. He had learned there were worst things.
But to fear something, someone, was a different thing. He feared what was to come now, with England. He feared the uncertainty of their future and he hated that it made him feel powerless.
Flint. He’d feared Flint the first time he stood before him. A legendary pirate covered in the blood of the men who had once held Billy prisoner.
“What’s your name, boy,” the disarmingly friendly man called Gates had asked him.
“Billy,” he’d answered. “Billy Manderly.”
“Well, Billy Manderly,” Gates had slapped him on the shoulder, “I’m Mr. Gates. This is Captain Flint. How would you feel about joining our little crew?”
Flint had snorted loudly before Billy could reply. He’d turned to his quartermaster with open disbelief, “Him? There’s nothing to him. He’s skin and bones. Billy Manderly, huh? More like Billy Bones.”
Gates had laughed loudly, throwing an arm around Billy’s shoulder. “Billy Bones. I like that. That’s what I’ll call you from now on. Billy Bones.” Turning back to Flint’s disapproving face, he went on, “Come on, Captain, he‘s been pressed into servitude. We can’t leave him here with this lot. He’s a tall lad, could be strong as a horse if we got some proper food in him. Bastards didn’t feed you much, did they, Billy Bones?”
“No,” he had admitted, shamefully. And he was ashamed. Ashamed that he’d been taken and that he’d been little more than a slave aboard that ship. Ashamed that he hadn’t done something, anything, to alter that.
“Aye,” Gates nodded. “Fresh marks on his back, too. Which one of them did that to you?”
“Captain Morrison. He likes to use the lash.” Among other things, he’d silently added to himself. Morrison was a right bastard. He enjoyed breaking men and it ate at him that he had never quite done so with Billy. Sometimes, lying chained to the floor in the belly of that ship, bloody and bruised, half-starved, Billy had thought he was a fool to just not give Morrison the satisfaction he wanted. All he had to do was let Morrison know he felt broken and defeated. But something in him couldn’t. A pride held deep inside that would never allow him to let that bastard know he’d won, even when he had.
A muscle worked tensely in Flint’s jaw as he walked behind Billy. He’d lifted the back of his shirt and saw the marks, new and old, some were hidden under bruises from two weeks before when Morrison had nearly kicked him to death. After a moment of silence, he decided, “Come with me. We’ll see what you’re made of.”
That was when Flint took him before Morrison. The very man who had beaten and terrorized him for three years was now kneeling terrified on the deck of his own ship, choking back sobs. He was no longer the monster Billy feared. He was sad and pathetic and Billy hated him. Hated him for the years of pain, of hunger, of being scared and alone. Hated him for the separation from his home, for not knowing if his family still lived even.
“He’s all yours. Do whatever you wish.”
Billy had turned to Flint then but it had taken him a moment to register the dagger in Flint’s hand, the one offered to him. And he’d taken it. Not just the dagger but also the power Flint was offering him. The power to take his life back and so he had. He’d reclaimed himself in the instant he claimed the life of Morrison.
A hint of a smile touched Flint’s lips, curling the corner of his mouth upwards. “Perhaps there is something to you after all,” he’d praised.
“Come on, then,” Mr. Gates had stepped forward, gently taking the dagger from his hand and steering him away from the Captain. “I’ll get you some food, Billy Bones. Introduce you to the crew.”
And thus his career as a high seas pirate had begun. He’d found an acceptance and freedom he’d never known before on the “Walrus”. Here he was an equal to every man. He had a voice and a vote. People listened to him and trusted him. He’d even grown to love the sea, a thing he’d hated those years on Morrison’s ship. He’d formed friendships with men like Joji and Joshua. He’d learned from Randall, before the man had lost his wits. And he’d found a father figure in Gates.
But Flint . . . Flint he had never truly figured out. Or stopped fearing. Or stopped being fascinated by. He’d seen the things James Flint was capable of, felt them and it made Flint more and more of an enigma to him.
His long strides carried him below deck and to the Captain’s quarters. He raised his fist and knocked gently. He paused but received no prompt to enter. He did so anyway, gently opening the door and peeking his head around. “Captain?” he called out.
There was no answer. Flint was slumped at his desk, his head fallen forward. Passed out drunk, Billy realized with a resigned sigh. How easy it could be for Vane to make a play for this ship right now and win. It was all he could do to keep the crew’s faith in Flint going even when he wasn’t sure he had any left himself. Vane’s question rose up to haunt him again. Why was he still here, loyal to this man?
John Silver lay on the window seat, a blanket covering up the fact that he was no minus one leg. Silver had been unconscious since the amputation and it was anyone’s guess if he would live or not. Billy walked to him and gently rested a hand on his forehead. He was relieved to find it cool and fever free. Perhaps Silver would pull through.
Flint stirred suddenly, trying to focus on the new figure in the room. Tall with the sunlight playing off blond hair. “Thomas?” he questioned.
“No, Captain, it’s me. Billy.”
“Billy,” Flint softly repeated, his eyes finally focusing on the young man who moved to stand before him.
“We’ll be in Tortuga in another day,” Billy spoke softly. “We can refit there, see the forestay properly repaired and re-supply before returning to Nassau.”
“Good,” Flint nodded, rubbing his temples and trying to concentrate on the words penetrating his foggy brain. “You’ll see to it.”
“Of course I will, but Captain -- The men need you now. They need your leadership. They’re unsure of what’s to come. You have to show yourself soon.”
Flint grunted and Billy felt his frustration grow. Vane had filled him in on the details of Charles Town that first night and he hesitantly broached the subject, “I’m sorry for your friend. Mrs. Barlow. I see how upset you are but, Captain--”
“James,” Flint interrupted, seeming to speak to no one in particular. “My name is James. No one calls me that anymore. There’s no one left who even knows my real name. They’re all gone now. Thomas, Miranda, even that bastard Ashe, everything’s gone.”
Billy sighed heavily, knowing it was useless to keep trying to rationalize with Flint when he was in this state. He started to walk away but Flint’s strong hand lashed out, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. He held Billy’s wrist in a vice-like grip, declaring, “I didn’t let go.”
“What?”
“Your hand,” Flint replied, raising anguished eyes to him. “That night on the ‘Andromache’, I didn’t let go. You said I probably didn’t know myself if you slipped or if I let you fall. But I do, Billy. I remember every second of it. I had you and then . . . You just slipped away. I wouldn’t have let go. Not you. Never you.”
The confession left him momentarily speechless. Resting his hand on Flint’s one that gripped his wrist, he admitted, “I believe you. I believe in you. That’s why I’m still here,” he stated mostly to himself. “Because I believe in you . . . James.”
Flint smiled softly at the use of his name, the gesture softening his features. Billy looked down at his hand, still resting on Flint’s. Of their own volition, his fingers entwined with Flint’s. “James,” he repeated softly, his hand receiving a squeeze and a gentle thumb caress in response. Flint’s intense eyes were fixed on his lips and Billy leaned in slowly--
Silver groaned loudly from behind them, stirring in his sleep. Billy quickly straightened, pulling his hand away. Flint didn’t protest. Spell broken.
“I, uh, I need to get back to the men. I’ve got Vane working on the mainstay,” Billy stammered, avoiding Flint’s gaze. “Would you like me to have some more rum sent in for you?”
“No. No, I’ve had enough,” Flint assured, pushing the half-empty bottle in front of him away for emphasis. “Ask the cook to send me some food. I have work to do. And tell Mr. DeGroot to join me, please. I need an update on our course.”
“Aye, Captain,” Billy nodded, quickly excusing himself from the cabin. Tomorrow, he suspected, would be business as usual.