Page 23 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

She’d been gone too long. Of course, Bash had to let her out of his sight at some point. What use was a cabin boy who didn’t run messages to the captain in his cabin? But it made him nervous, which infuriated him. He was accustomed to worrying about the whole ship and her crew as an entity, a living, breathing organism, one he understood and had the where-with-all to tend. He couldn’t afford to be constantly fearful about the wellbeing of an individual.

How would it look?

The crew believed the girl was a lad called Magnus. Would a boy be in danger, caught alone in the wrong dark corner with the wrong disreputable sailor? Of course. Would Bash hover and nursemaid a young lad? Or would he trust the men to either respect or fear him enough none would interfere with what he’d claimed and leave the rest to the lad to take care of himself?

Hypotheticals had always made Bash feel stupid. Give him facts and figures, maps and charts, stars and wind. Maybes and what ifs were as useless as chasing hopes and dreams.

“You’re a right grumpy bugger today,” Dutch observed when Bash glowered towards the hatch for the hundredth time.

He tried to smooth his furious brow before responding. “Hmph,” he grunted, and Dutch studied him harder.

“Bit crowded in your berth these days?”

He shot Dutch a look, but the quartermaster was studiously intent on the horizon, unable or unwilling to meet Bash’s eye. Time to change the subject.

“Is it a mind game the old man’s playing? Veering off course to fuck with me?”

Now Dutch did turn his attention.

“He rejected my plan for the colonies,” Bash explained. “Ordered us back to Jamaica, then deliberately sabotaged our course so we’re too far north. Does he want to go to Boston but just can’t let me be right?”

“He doesn’t know what he wants,” Dutch muttered under his breath before turning around and leaning against the railing. “Ahoy, Captain!” he called. “Young Magnus.”

Bash took a breath before turning around.

“Cabin boy says you’re afraid of the wind.”

Maggie seemed nervous, but still in one piece. Her expression turned stricken at the captain’s words, but she didn’t contradict him. Good girl.

“Southerly,” Bash explained with a practiced shrug. “Won’t carry us to Port Royal, but as you know, I’m happy to see Boston, myself…”

The captain sneered. “We won’t find Willy Walsh in Boston.”

“Perhaps we’ll find he’s taken Tew’s route from Africa to Yemen,” Bash argued sarcastically. A possibility, but they both knew Walsh didn’t have Tew’s stones.

Mad’s wicked grin broadened. “Perhaps I should let you take us there just to prove he hasn’t.”

“It’s no difference to me, sir. Only reporting facts. We’re not on course for the Caribbean.”

“Well, you’re the sailing master, boy. Wear the fucking sails.”

“Aye, Captain,” Bash said with a curt nod. Then he bellowed, “Ready about,” and the men sprang to action like well-oiled cogs.

They swarmed the sails, preparing to turn the tail of the brig into the wind. Bash loved to stand back and watch them in action. He took pride in how smoothly the men worked together.

“Lines are fouled,” Duffy called, peering up at the foremast.

And just like that, the magic was spoiled.

Bash’s head snapped around to follow Duffy’s gaze. Sure enough, the lines were tangled, the sail too tight to make the turn.

“I’ll get it,” Langley grumbled, starting forward.

“Good lad.” Bash cuffed him affectionally, but the captain put out his arm.

“Why not let the new recruit have a go,” he asked laconically.

Langley stopped, one hand on the ratline, looking from Mad to Bash unsure who he’d rather please.