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PART IV
“Cousin?” Celia looked over her shoulder to see Sarah looking at her with great confusion. “Do you … know … my papa?”
Celia took a deep breath. “Yes. Charles Munro, fourth Marquess Rathbone, Rear-Admiral of His Majesty’s Navy. Your mother and my mother are sisters. He has been searching for you for twenty years.”
She paused at that, as if she had not thought of such a thing. “Then why … will you not … take me to him?”
“Because I am a criminal in England. I will most assuredly be captured.”
“But treated as a prisoner of war,” Solomon said quickly.
Celia slid an incredulous look at him, her mouth slightly open. “Are you suggesting—”
“Husband,” Suniyya pleaded softly, “I would … very much … like to see … my papa. She has hers. I want mine, too.”
Solomon nodded vaguely at his wife, but looked to Celia. “I am merely pointing out that were you to be captured, your life would not be forfeit—”
“Unless we lose the war!”
“—and you can afford to keep yourself in the utmost of luxury for the duration of any imprisonment.”
“Good God!” Bataar blurted. Celia looked to her bo’sun, who gaped at Solomon in disbelief. “You would ask Jack to risk capture and possibly execution to fulfill a madwoman’s wish?”
Solomon snarled and took a step toward Bataar, but Celia stepped between them. He stilled immediately when Suniyya whimpered at this show of violence. Looking at his wife, he said soberly, “I will take you to your papa, my love.”
“What?!” Celia and Bataar screeched as one, neither of them caring that Suniyya attempted to hide behind Solomon. “How in God’s name will you get there?” Celia demanded.
He curled his lip at her. “I know not. Yet. But I’ve coin aplenty and am not lacking for intelligence.”
Celia’s heart pounded in her ears and her mouth was dry. This was not a battle she had foreseen and she feared its outcome. “You promised to come with me and mind my womb through at least one child!”
“You promised to find my wife, and this girl-child is most certainly not my wife.”
Celia’s chest began to heave with this accusation. “You’re punishing me for this?”
His jaw tightened and she had only seen that ugly expression on his face once—right before he alone had killed eleven men with naught but a knife and his bare hands. “She would not be in this wretched condition had we looked for her straightaway instead of spending four years on others’ errands. My children would not fear me as just another Arab sent to enslave and torture them!”
When Celia could only stand numb with shock, Bataar stepped around her and poked her finger in Solomon’s chest. “You would have died four years ago without Jack!” Bataar shouted. “All of us would have!”
“Yes, and we would be uncaring of it! Yet we are alive and I find myself wed to someone I must now heal because of our neglect. I will do whatever I must to speed that process.”
“How will seeing her father make her heal faster?” Bataar demanded.
Celia still could not speak whilst Solomon and Bataar quarreled, and with each loud and bitter word they exchanged, her hope of giving Elliott the child he so wanted to carry on his immortality faded away: She could abandon Solomon to his devices, but neither Solomon nor Orlando could perform the procedure alone.
“—give her peace. Look at her, Khan! I want my wife back.” He looked at Celia and pointed at her. “We are going to England. If you want your child, you will take us and you will arrange for Suniyya to see Rathbone. You have an infinite supply of schemes and ways of avoiding capture.”
It was an insult of the highest order, an utter betrayal of their time together. It was as if … the last four years had never happened.
“I will give you two days,” Solomon—this, this stranger—growled. “But consider: Whether or not your wish is to give Judas the child he wants, you will need children to fulfill your vow to him. If you doubt it, look to Muehl, whose wife has no hope of having children to help him work his beloved land. And for you, it will all be for naught once you and Judas are dead and buried. History will never know you existed, because there will be no one to come after you who will care.”
Tears stung her eyes. “My God,” she whispered. It was true: All she had done, all she had accomplished—gone. All their goals, the very ones she feared—worthless endeavors if they could not pass it on. They could find orphans aplenty, as she had planned, just as Muehl had found in Spain, but to what purpose? The oldest of the boys Muehl had taken to foster was barely out of swaddling, and they looked as Teutonic as Muehl and his wife. If they were consistent in their lies, no one, including the children, would ever know they were not his blood.
“I waited,” Solomon hissed. “I was patient. I have cared for you and served you well all these years. And this is my reward?”
She could not deny that, either, as she began to tot up his acts of loyalty to her that she had taken for granted.
Bataar roared in frustration. “She has fed us well and given us freedom we would never have known on any other ship! And beyond that, she has made us wealthy beyond belief! How can you now weigh your service to her against hers to you and find hers lacking?”
“And after the mutiny?” he roared in return. “Without me, none of us would be here!” He cast a snarl at Celia. “How many times have I saved your life?”
Celia clenched her jaw, then looked away. “I don’t know,” she whispered tightly.
“Did I not also save your husband’s?”
“GOT CAUGHT IN THE WEB O’ YER ALLIANCES, DID YE, WHELP?”
All four of them started and Celia looked over her shoulder to see her father still standing there on his own poopdeck. Her mother stood beside him, staring at Solomon with an expression as horrified as Celia felt.
She looked around and saw that a good portion of the crews of both ships had stilled long ago to listen to this exchange. Smitty stood down on the main deck with his arms crossed over his chest, looking up stonily at Solomon. The rest of the crew was no more forgiving.
Solomon had sacrificed every last drop of goodwill and respect he had ever had aboard this ship to give his wife what she wanted most—and the amount of it was great, indeed.
How much was Celia willing to sacrifice to give Elliott what he wanted, that which he had vowed not press or resent her for?
She looked back to her father, whose somber expression did not lend itself to gloating. She took comfort in that.
“Aye,” she choked. “It seems I did.”
His mouth tightened. “Do ye want me to escort ye to England, then?”
“Can you … take Solomon and his wife?”
He cast Solomon a disgusted glance. “I believe he wants his pound o’ flesh from you, Lass.”
“Indeed,” Solomon rumbled angrily.
“We are going to England, Solomon?” Suniyya croaked, clutching at Solomon’s tunic.
Aunt Harriet would slice her wrists to see Sarah thusly and likely slice Rathbone’s throat before she died—and he would not object.
“Certainly, my love,” he said gently. “I must just arrange passage.”
“Well?” Dunham shouted. “Are ye goin’ or not?”
Celia’s shoulders drooped and she looked at the deck.
“Aye,” she said with a slow nod, which was greeted with groans and shouts of protest from the crew.
Dunham grunted. “And an escort?”
“Nay,” she sighed and raised her head wearily, her eyes stinging anew and her vision blurring. “Wait for me whilst I write a missive to my husband. Find him and give it to him.” Dunham’s mouth dropped open. “Be certain he understands I have not abandoned him. Relay where I have been and what I have done and where I am bound, and that I will join him as soon as I can.”
Dunham was immediately furious. “He’s likely got a letter of marque by now! I canna be seen with ’im in American waters without riskin’ me own neck!”
She shrugged. “Fine, then. Be about your king’s business.”
“Yes, we will!”
Celia’s eyes widened at her mother’s shout.
“God almighty, woman!” Dunham roared down at her.
“We will go find Judas.”
“No, we will not!”
Mary cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Captain Jack! Permission to come aboard and stay aboard?”
“Jesus Christ, Mary!”
Under other circumstances, Celia would have found this highly amusing, particularly when Mary punched her finger in Dunham’s chest and snapped, “You will or I will take up my duties on the Thunderstorm and never tup you again.”
But not now. No one was laughing.
“Mary!” he hissed. “Do ye have to speak of such in front of the bairn? ’Tis not proper!”
“The bairn?! She is nigh thirty and hasn’t been a bairn since she was ten and four and Rafael took her as his mistress. And who’s responsible for that, I’d like to know!”
Dunham’s face flushed and his fists clenched at his sides.
Mary ignored him and turned to Celia. “Go on, dear! We’ll find Judas and bid him keep faith.”
“Thank you, Mama!” Celia called back, heartsick. “Thank you, Papa!”
But Dunham slumped and grumbled, “Yer welcome. Doonna get yerself executed.”
If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.
Pirates!
One of the interesting bits from Herbert’s Dune was his employment of loyalty in House Atreides, in both directions.
Loyalty is a running theme in my work. Two million words in print and I still haven’t worked through it.
Scene: Protag 1 explaining to Protag 2 why an off-screen character did Thing X that adversely affects Protag 3 (and by the way #1 and #3 are these pirates’ several-greats grandchildren):
So. You know. Color me bitter.
Loyalty matters.
A hill I’ll die on.
I’m certainly loyal to my family and friends. But it’s never been tested. I don’t snitch? *ignorant shrug*
It’s one of the more powerful moral drives. Interesting to think about how it’s wired into us (out of the womb, before baby has time to absorb any culture or influence). Vital for the whole social primate thing and curious how humans still be ‘My Organism First/ Always.’
Other than keeping secrets, or things to myself, and not snitching, no ‘demonstration’ of loyalty comes to mind. I’m quite sure I’m forgetting things I don’t consider ‘loyalty,’ but I knoweth not.
* “Off the record” means it, personally, socially and professionally.
Being tested on stuff is interesting.
There is how you plan to react.
How you think you’ll react
And how you react.
I’ve not been as graceful as I’ve wanted to be many times.
Biggest pet peeve/ inner turmoil of mine: In an ‘important’ conversation, I seemingly can’t just slow down and ‘think.’ It’s not just reactionary, I do fine, but *just being in the conversation* is its own hurdle to clear. This bothers me much.Not sure how to ‘train’ myself. Hrmm.
More ‘missed opportunities’ for me than ‘lack of grace.’ I’m also a cartoon character, so there is that.
Oooh! Dunham fears being relegated to the quarterdeck bench for the night+…
🖐 I’ve never had sex on a boat or ship. Now, well? Why not? Back then, that may get interesting. Would watch, but not join. Well? Who knows, with the rum and fun. I’d make sure to get written consent first. Those X’s count.
Dammit! ‘Transom bench’ is funner in every way:
The Captain’s Downgrade: The Day Cabin Settee or the Quarterdeck Bench
A ship’s captain actually had an honest-to-god couch. The great cabin at the stern typically featured a built-in upholstered wooden bench called a settee or transom bench along the stern windows.
If a captain had a falling out with an officer, partner, or guest sharing the private state berth:
The “Couch” Equivalent: Sleeping fully dressed on the hard leather or canvas transom bench in the outer day cabin, listening to the rudder creak directly below.
The Dramatic Sulk: Bivouacking in a canvas chair or on a sea chest out on the quarterdeck, wrapped in an oilskin watch coat under the open night sky to make a point about how martyr-like they were being.
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Duh. I’m real smart ‘n stuf.