Spoiler! :
The floor is damp, and light seeps in from the port holes, always unhealthy and dim. The rhythmic rocking of the waves is magnified and unpleasant as air passes through my mouth like water, thick and gives less oxygen than mold spores and disease. I don't know what thickens it, the black mold crawling up the wall, the smell of rat feces, or the pirate in the corner who hasn't moved in a suspiciously long time... To be fair to the mold, the rats, and the pirate, I've probably made their air less breathable for them as well.
I stare at the planks above me, basking in the light streaming through a hole the size of a quarter. I imagine it warming the circle it has created on my forehead and that warmth spreading to my cold, stockinged feet where my big toe, the nail black with dirt, sticks out. I murmur a letter of apology to my mother, more eloquent than anything I've ever put in any paper for any client, a letter that will never reach her or anyone, a letter that I will keep until an untimely death, not on any parchment, but in my mind.
“With sincere love and regret,” I mutter, frowning as a boot covers the whole for a moment, “Your son who's going to die on the Queen Anne's Revenge, Jacob.”
As I fall silent, thoughts swirl around as if they are some concoction in a cauldron, stirred by a cackling witch who looks very similar to the girl I left for America, for my big break in my writing career.
The door at the top of the stairs scrapes against the floor, and the man behind it throws himself against it, forcing it open. Tilting my head back, I can see the heel of a pair of boots striking the step and don't waste the effort to sit up.
“Jacob?”
“I'm still here, Caesar. I thought about leaving, but the food's too good,” I answered the slave turned respected pirate.
“Shu' yer yap.”
“Yes sir.”
“Tryer done tol' me you know where de Capt'n keeps 'is gol'.”
Caesar was loyal to Blackbeard. He's the one that saw through my fake promises of a rich family that would pay any ransom demands when I had been the only one left alive on the ship bound for New York from Charleston. There was little chance he actually wanted the gold.
“You wanna show me?”
“Depends on why you want to know.” My heart pounded. I prayed to God that he would leave it at that. Tryer had been down here to give me moldy bread and stagnant water. I had been desperate yesterday, had said anything that might get me out for a moment.
“I wan' de gol'. Wha' else?”
I slowly sit up, groaning softly. “You'll help me out?”
“Yeah.”
“On land?”
“Of course.”
Standing stiffly, I leaned on the barred door keeping me from freedom. “Can't do anything from here.”
“We're dockin' in Wilmington t'morra. Mos' o' de crew'll, plus de Capt'n be gone.” He's already heading toward stairs again.
I lay back down, looking up at the hole of light. My mind reaches into the potion of thoughts for any hint of where Blackbeard's coins are.
The pirate I had thought of as dead groans, startling me. I crawl toward him, shaking him fiercely, breathing through my mouth.
His eyes fluttered groggily, and I sit beside him as he focuses on me.
“Wha...”
Hoping against hope, I ask, “Why're you here?”
He wipes the drool from his chin and straightens. “Wha?” he repeats, staring at me with a dumb gaze.
“Why're you here?”
He continues his stare. Feeling desperate, anger bubbles through fake calm, and I get in his face. “Why. Are. You. Here?”
He blinks. “...Knew too much.”
My heart flips. With a dry mouth, I murmur, “What?”
He frowns, the fog of a deep sleep lifting. “Why?” His eyes quickly gain suspicion. Obviously, men had to wake fast on this ship.
“It's life or death.” To a pirate, that means little, but I could only try.
His eyes crinkle in amusement. “You're not one of us.” He doesn't wait for the shake of my head. “You're lucky I'm in here, not some heartless sonofabitch. What'd ya promise?”
“The location of Blackbeard's treasure.”
He whistles, scratching his crotch, thinking. “You're a lucky bastard.”
For the first time, rotting in the brig of a pirate ship, I'm a lucky bastard.
“I know exactly where it is, but you've gotta promise me you'll get me out.”
“Of course.”
He laughs. “I think it goes without saying I'll kill you if you don't follow through.” He glances at the door. “Come here...”
. . .
I follow Caesar through an almost silent ship, into Blackbeard's quarters. Nathaniel, my cellmate, was silent, smart enough not to give us up with a thoughtless slip of the tongue.
I accept the cutlass offered by Nathaniel, and approach the chair with stuffing coming out of the seams. I begin to cut the fabric as Nathaniel had told me.
There's a dull thwack, and I glance up to see Nathaniel standing over Caesar with the giant book in his hands. I stare. “What are you doing?”
He laughs. “Do you think I actually knew where he keeps his treasure? It's probably not even on this ship. I just didn't want you to give us away because you can't lie.” He begins to leave, glancing behind him. “Are you coming, or do you want to stay here?”
I scramble after him. “Dear Mom,” I mutter, “I'm coming home. Tell Alice not to marry that idiot you were talking about.”
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