Chapter Text
The Cutlass had just come into port in Martinique for a bit of shore leave. Most everyone would be heading into town, no doubt. There was a tavern here that did decent food, and more importantly for most of the crew, a brothel that apparently offered bang-up service. For pirates whose pockets were jingling with their share of the latest haul, the brothel was probably more enticing than a good meal.
Frenchie, who liked the thought of the meal and could do without the brothel, would surely get to shore soon enough. Not a lot of space to stretch long legs on a ship, and he liked a change of scenery. But he liked having room to think too, and quiet on a pirate ship was even harder to come by than stretching space. He might hang back for a bit while the others went ashore, work on that new song he was trying to write.
So as his crewmates headed up toward the deck, Frenchie moved below. A few years back, he’d nicked this guitar that accompanied him at sea, a beat-up old thing that easily drifted out of tune in the heat. He kept it tucked behind the ration stores for safekeeping, so he walked down to the galley to fetch it.
He was still approaching when he heard the twangy sound of carelessly plucked strings. Frenchie’s heart thudded against his chest and his throat suddenly felt dry, but he forced his expression to stay neutral as he hurried the rest of the way.
There were a few guys sitting round the galley, laughing and joking. Locke was the one who’d nabbed the guitar. A burly white guy from the Georgia colony, Locke had four or five inches on Frenchie, easy, and his hands were the size of dinner plates. The guitar made a tortured noise as he drummed his fingers hard against the strings.
“Hey, all right?” Frenchie said. Despite his best efforts to keep his tone steady, there was a slight crack in his voice.
From the shark-like grin on Locke’s face, he’d caught it too, even over all the racket he was making with the guitar. “Hey there, Frenchie,” he said, speaking Frenchie’s name like it was a slight. “How’s it hanging?”
“Oh, you know,” Frenchie replied, noncommittal. “Just wanted a quick drink of water before heading to shore is all.” He tried not to let on that he was keeping his eyes on the guitar.
“Don’t tell us you’re coming with us to the brothel,” remarked Ferret, a shifty-eyed white Londoner with a thin, reedy-sounding voice. “Didn’t think you went in for that sort of thing.” He made a flouncy hand gesture that Frenchie couldn’t make sense of.
“Maybe,” Frenchie hedged. “Depends on what I get up to.”
Locke nudged Ferret and grinned. “Finally time to dip the old wick, huh?” he asked.
“It’s daytime,” Frenchie pointed out. “Won’t need candles onshore.” The other guys laughed like he’d said something funny.
“Anyway…” Frenchie continued, hoping they’d be moving along.
“Oi, what’s up?” Ferret asked. “You trying to get rid of us?”
“Me?” Frenchie replied, aiming for an indifferent shrug—it felt like he missed the mark a bit. “Not likely. I know better than to try and get Locke to do something he doesn’t wanna do.” He picked at his nails but didn’t look away from the guitar.
“Whatever, let’s just go,” Locke decided, and Frenchie held back his smile. “My balls are as blue as jays.”
As he let out a final ferocious twang on the guitar, one of the strings snapped. And though Frenchie really tried, he couldn’t keep himself from flinching—Locke caught that as well. “Piece of junk,” he declared, tossing it to the ground.
The other guys got up and sauntered out of the gallery. Locke gave Frenchie a hard bump with his shoulder as he passed. “Fucking [thing],” he muttered.
He didn’t really say “thing.” They never did. It was just one of the many words white folks liked to use for Black people. They had all kinds of insults and slurs, as well as the straightforward “slave” in a pinch. To Frenchie, it didn’t really matter what word they used, ‘cause it all came back to the same meaning: thing. “Come here, you dumb beast that thinks it’s people!” “Hey you, object that I can bet in a card game if I’m short on cash!” “Oi, doesn’t matter if you walk and talk—you still just look like somebody’s property to me!”
When Locke [thinged] him, Frenchie did what he often did. Oh, he would find a way to get ahead if he could, but sometimes the only safe option was to keep his mouth shut. In those cases, like now, he swallowed his feelings down before they could swallow him instead. What else was there?
Once the sounds of his boisterous crewmates faded out, Frenchie crouched down and picked up the guitar, carefully looking it over for damage beyond the snapped string. No cracks to the body, but the knob on one of the tuning keys had broken off.
“Aw, bitch-witch,” Frenchie mumbled. So much for quiet time on the ship. Guess he was heading into town sooner than he thought.
Wanting to avoid Locke and the others, Frenchie took his time with it. He got that drink of water after all, and he slipped the guitar strap over his head, the guitar at his back and the strap across his chest. After dawdling for a few more minutes, he went up on deck and found only one of his crewmates still aboard.
“Hey, all right, Eddie?” Frenchie asked.
Besides Frenchie, the few other Black guys on the crew were from islands round the Caribbean. They all liked to speak to each other in French, and it seemed to annoy them that Frenchie couldn’t. They were friendly enough to him—just weren’t mates.
Etienne, better known as Eddie, glanced up from the pipe he was filling. “Hello, Frenchie.”
“Not going ashore?” Frenchie wondered.
Eddie shrugged. “Too many wanted posters,” he replied.
Oh, that’s right, Eddie was from Martinique. All well and good, running away to become a pirate, but it got tricky when you showed up on the doorstep of the place you ran away from. Frenchie was lucky that way—he wasn’t likely to find himself back in England anytime soon.
“Shit,” Frenchie said. “Guess you can have a nap while the ship’s quiet. Or maybe set up some of the empty rum bottles on deck and play ninepins?”
The other pirate lit his pipe. “See you later, Frenchie.”
After a beat, Frenchie echoed, “Yeah, see you.”
Not a great life, he knew. Had to stay on your guard, had to keep ahead of the guys who’d squash you just to prove they could, had to know when to hold your tongue to stay alive. Not quite as free as he’d imagined a life at sea being when he left England, but it was as much a life as any, he s’posed. You got used to it. Frenchie could get used to pretty much anything.
When he got to shore, Frenchie looked round, pondering where on Martinique you might find guitar strings or tuning key knobs (or at least some sort of knobby doodah that you could use as one.) Maybe he should’ve asked Eddie.
He noticed someone else looking round the docks, someone who was most definitely lost. A middle-aged white man with blond curls. No, not a man—a gentleman. He stood there in a salmon-colored coat with a cravat, holding a parasol.
When his sort came to Martinique, they didn’t use this port. This was for sailors and traders and rough types. There was a pretty little port round the other side of the island where the hoity-toity folks anchored. The gentleman’s captain must’ve brought him in on the wrong side. Somebody was getting sacked.
Oh well—his loss was Frenchie’s opportunity. His time in service might’ve been short, but it was just long enough to know exactly how to work guys like this. He regretted the hole worn into the front of his jacket, especially compared to the gentleman’s fine coat, but he smoothed it down and stood up straight.
If he played his cards right, Frenchie might have enough money for a whole new guitar once he sent the gentleman on his way.
Frenchie began to speak as he approached. The gentleman was bound to [thing] him at least once, but if Frenchie talked quickly enough, he could put it off for a while, anyway. “Good day to you, fine sir!” he called, dipping his head into a bow. “You look like you’re in something of a predicament. Not to worry, sir! I’m well-acquainted with these parts, and it would be my honor to escort you to safety. For the low, low price of—”
“Pirates!” the gentleman broke in.
Frenchie’s immediate reaction was to cry, “Where?”, looking all about him like he was nervous. Not the best lie—didn’t really sell the whole “promise of safety” thing. But then, he’d billed himself as an escort, not a bodyguard, so maybe the gentleman wouldn’t question it.
“I’m looking for pirates!” the gentleman went on. “Do you know where I could find any?”
This threw Frenchie for a loop. For a second, his mouth just hung open before he stammered his way round to a, “A-a-and what d’you want pirates for?”
Didn’t look like the sort who bagged pirates and brought them in for the reward. Didn’t need the money for starters, and didn’t look like he’d want to risk getting his nails dirty for another. Had he thought he’d found himself a treasure map and wanted a crew to chase it down for him? Or maybe he had illegal goods that needed smuggling.
“Ah, yes, let me introduce myself,” the gentleman announced, and he actually stuck his hand out for Frenchie to shake it. “Stede Bonnet, pirate captain.”
Frenchie had been on a few ships now. He’d seen his share of pirate captains, including the eccentric type. He’d never seen a pirate captain like this before. “Sorry,” he said, “when you say you’re looking for pirates, do you mean specific ones? Did you, er, misplace your crew?”
“No, of course not!” the gentleman—Captain Bonnet—Stede replied. “I’ve only just taken to the salty seadog life, and I’m putting together the most splendid crew in the Caribbean. I’m offering fair wages for fair work!”
With a frown, Frenchie asked, “What d’you mean wages?”
Stede gave a surprised little “oh!”, then said, “Er, yes, wages. You know, when you’re paid an agreed-upon salary for—?”
“No, I know what wages are,” Frenchie told him. “But they’re for servants and dockworkers. Pirates get paid in plunder.”
“Oh, but think of it!” Stede exclaimed. “What if a week or two goes by and you don’t see any ships? Or maybe a raid turns out badly and there’s hardly any loot to be had! Why, you wouldn’t get paid at all! What would you do then?”
“Go hungry,” Frenchie supplied.
“Exactly!” Stede said, like Frenchie had made his point for him. “That will never do. No, it’s the same salary every week for my crew, rain or shine. Any booty is just an extra bounty!” At that turn of phrase, he smiled to himself, and Frenchie realized he was a bit mad.
But a madman with cash he was keen to burn on “wages”? It had potential. “What sort of wages are we talking here?” Frenchie asked.
“Are you a pirate?” Stede asked hopefully. Before Frenchie could answer, he grabbed a roll of paper that was tucked under his arm, unfurling it and thrusting it in Frenchie’s face. “I’ve got an advertisement! It’s all here!”
Even if Frenchie could’ve read the words, he definitely couldn’t read the fancy script they were written in. It was the same sort of flourishy writing that rich folks used for swanky invitations, all wavy swirls and loops. But there were also illustrations of a Jolly Roger and a bag of coins. “This all seems to be in order,” Frenchie mused as he pretended to read it over.
Was he seriously considering this? Crewing for a crazy gentleman who didn’t know what the hell he was doing? Even if the wages were good, that seemed like a recipe for a short life.
But pirates’ lives were already short, weren’t they? On this guy’s ship, maybe at least it’d be short but nice.
Frenchie turned round, looking back at the Cutlass. Whether he went along with it or not, might be worth it to keep Stede on the hook for a while. Even if he didn’t end up taking Stede’s wages, Frenchie could find an angle that still let him walk away with some of Stede’s gold.
As Frenchie was pondering, Stede let out a gasp. “You’re a musician???” he cried.
“Huh?” Frenchie turned back to him, then glanced at the guitar over his shoulder. “Er, yeah, I s’pose.”
Stede clasped Frenchie’s hand in both of his, and it occurred to Frenchie that the gentleman hadn’t called him a [thing] yet. “A good bard is just what I need!” Stede gushed. “Please let me show you my ship! I think you’ll be very impressed!”
Eh, Frenchie was on shore leave. He didn’t have anywhere to be. Might as well let this play out. “Lead on, sir,” he said with a smile.