Chapter 210: Dame vs Anne

Don Rodrigo had kept his hands on the wheel ever since they left Port Royal, four days ago.

His back stayed straight, his voice low and certain whenever he called for a correction, and by now nobody aboard thought much about how good he was at it. A man can become ordinary by doing crazy feats well enough for long enough, which was one of life’s cheaper tricks.

The voyage had been easy, as expected. The sea lay flat enough that even the newest hands had stopped to look over the water against every little roll.

James stood close enough to watch but not close enough to steer, quite content for once to let the old man enjoy his work.

The easy day was interrupted by the lookout, some cry from the masthead uncertain what sort of alarm it ought to be.

First came, "Land ho!"

Then more like, "Ship ho!"

Then a long silence while the lad above decided it might be wiser not to swear to either.

At last he managed to inform two ships, standing well off Concordia’s island. One rode low and fat on the water, while a lean little sloop kept close beside her.

The mood on deck turned wary faster than James cared for.

Spanish colors, the sailors muttered. Some lads had already decided it was an English man-of-war sniffing around a harbor that had no business being on any chart.

For every man certain of one answer, there was another just as certain of the opposite, which was about the usual measure of naval sense.

Cudjoe said nothing. He never did until he’d looked enough to know better than to guess.

Anne answered the question herself, bringing her spyglass to her eye before James had properly raised his own.

"Holy cows, that’s the Revenge, the sloop."

James raised his own spyglass and found he didn’t need the rest explained.

He called for the private recognition signal, tired of trying to make out shadows on the horizon. Don Rodrigo was told only to close the distance, and brought the Grand Dame’s bow around without asking a question.

James picked the man out through the glass before either ship could hail the other.

There could only ever have been one soul standing at that deck, with a beard nearly swallowing his whole face and a brace of pistols crossed over his chest, dressed for a war nobody else had thought to declare.

He was already laughing.

Behind him was a ship that towered clean over the waters. It was a proper East Indiaman, built for the long voyage to Bombay and Canton, with two full tiers of gunports stacked along a side that had hauled spice and silk.

Somewhere in whatever remained of James’s memory of how this story was supposed to go, that lass was supposed to be a fat slave ship.

He decided history could catch up whenever it pleased.

"Thatch!"

The name came out, and James found himself grinning at open water for a good while before either ship came close enough for words to carry.

The instant the ships came within shouting distance, Thatch bellowed.

"CALLOWAY!"

His voice thundered across the water, hard enough to send the gulls scattering. "Christ, would ye look at ye! Finally fetched yerself a proper ship, have ye? Or did ye find the poor fat lass driftin’ about and decide to keep her, seein’ as nobody else wanted the ugly bitch?"

"Fetched her fair and square, Thatch!"

James shouted back, cupping both hands around his mouth. "Which is more than I can say for you, findin’ the first wallowin’ merchantman daft enough to drift into yer path and callin’ it earnin’ a livin’! Least mine’s got the good sense to look expensive!"

Both rails answered with a roar.

It was loud enough that three decks below, Sawyer could be heard hollering about the beams.

Over Thatch’s shoulder, Israel Hands leaned forward with his arms folded, watching the performance with easy patience. Black Caesar stood a pace behind him, taking up twice the space either man needed and saying not a word.

"Queen Anne’s Revenge, I’ve named her!"

Thatch bellowed, thumping one fist against his rail. "Eight-and-forty guns, Calloway! More iron in her belly than the whole Spanish treasure fleet put together, and enough men aboard to make King George himself soil his breeches!"

James doubted she had that number, but saw no profit in arguing mathematics with a man three drinks beyond caring whether the truth mattered to the conversation.

Instead, he provoked back. "Aye, and she probably needs a whole ocean just to turn herself round! My lass could dance a jig around her, make port in time for supper, and look prettier while doin’ it!"

He laughed loudly. "Three hulls under one flag, Thatch! Rose and Fortune besides, waitin’ on me this very hour! What’ve ye got, two?"

Not to be outdone, Thatch continue to bellow. "One mighty ship beats three tubs roped together every time, ye daft bastard! Quality’s worth more than yer bloody navy ever taught ye, and I’ll wager mine could swallow all three of yers whole and still have room left for pudding!"

Milagros tugged at Anne’s sleeve, watching the whole business with open confusion.

"Who in God’s name is that? Is he always this loud, or is today special?"

Anne clicked her tongue with a smile. "That’s Thatch, love, although he fancies himself as Blackbeard nowadays. He’s always this loud, you get used to it, same as you get used to the tide."

Bonnet said little during the exchange.

He watched his old sloop ride the swell beside her new and much larger companion, and his expression met old ache with genuine fondness.

Meanwhile, both captains ran out of breath before they ran out of things to shout, and James found the chance he wanted first.

He called. "Reckon we settle this right, then! Dame against Anne, at Concordia herself, instead of shoutin’ like a pair of fishwives across open water!"

Thatch laughed outright, and waved one broad hand toward their two deep, fat hulls. "Aye, well ye can forget that sport before it ever starts! Neither one of us is gettin’ near that reef with a keel like mine, and I’d wager yours draws just as deep!"

James didn’t correct him.

He didn’t even give the smallest hint that Thatch was wrong.

"Away with ye, then, Thatch! Sit out there and doubt it all ye like!"

The words were still hanging over the water when Don Rodrigo brought the Grand Dame’s bow around toward the passage. He didn’t give a damn about either man wager.

He handled her steadily, and the fat old lady slipped through four fathoms of water she had no reasonable right to clear.

Grey and Crick exchanged one look near the wheel, the sort that said everything neither man had bothered saying aloud.

She went clean and easy.

🏴 [PERK ACTIVATED] — Coastal Giant

Behind them, across the narrowing water, Thatch’s laugh died in the middle of his throat.

He watched a ship every bit as fat as his own disappear behind a reef he would have sworn on his beard could never hold her.

James looked back once, just to make certain he’d seen it right.

Then he decided that, in all his strange, transplanted life, he had never enjoyed a man’s silence quite so much.