Page 49 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

“Fuck off, son. It’s time to ready the cannons.”

He pointed to the specter of the Woebegone Whale coming into firing range on the starboard side.

“We’ll speak no more of this,” Dutch added, granting a sort of absolution which Bash didn’t deserve—one only she could offer.

And now he was leading her into war.

He’d been ten the first time he’d seen battle, and he spent its entirety cowering in a secret hiding place below deck. That was where she needed to be right now.

By eleven, the captain insisted he run gun powder from the magazine to each artillery station, and when his pace slowed after what felt like hours, Mad had come at him with a belaying pin, bestowing his first battle scar upon his left cheek.

Weeks later, Dutch began teaching him the sword.

There had been many fights in the intervening years, and Bash was hardened to them now. He did the job by rote, his training taking over, but his stomach never felt easy before or after, and this time there was an extra layer of dread, like that same ill wind blowing from the south.

He glared up to make sure false colors had been raised and saw a Dutch flag snapping in the breeze.

Beside him, the quartermaster who acknowledged no flag nodded with a smirk.

“Ready the grappling,” Bash ordered young Langley. “Every man to his post,” he bellowed.

The men sprang into action at once, eager to take their stations and unleash a bloodthirsty hell.

Chapter Twelve

Just as it had a week and a half ago when the men had converged on their stations and worked as a single organism to turn the ship through the wind, everything happened all at once.

Pirates swarmed around the brigantine, like busy ants intent on their work, adjusting the sails and readying the cannons, preparing themselves for war. The crew of the Woebegone Whale would have easily spied them by now, just as surely as the Revenge had marked her prey.

The trick was to pretend to be a Dutch merchant vessel with no interest whatsoever in Willy Walsh as they sailed calmly past his sloop until they were close enough to hoist the Jolly Roger and demand surrender.

Unlike last time, Bash didn’t ignore Maggie to focus on the horizon, nor did he observe his men with a close and careful watch. This time he only had eyes for her, as a battle seemed to rage within himself, the muscle in his jaw twitching beneath his scar, where the dimple Maggie loved so much ought to be.

“What shall I do?” she asked, desperate to be useful. “Shall I climb the rigging to keep watch? Bash…? Sir?”

“I’m thinking,” he replied, though to Maggie it looked like he was merely glowering into her soul.

“Not the rigging. I forgot,” she corrected. “The gun powder. Langley said when the cannons come out, it’s my job to keep the powder bags full.”

Bash sighed. “It should be. Aye.”

She nodded. The task sounded simple enough. She could be quick, as long as it wasn’t too dark below deck. She certainly wouldn’t be permitted to race around with powder and a candle lantern together. “I can do that,” she said. “Show me to the magazine and I’ll get to work.”

Bash cast an assessing gaze over her whole person making her tingle with anticipation.

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing her hand and leading her swiftly to the hatch, his face the fiercest she’d ever seen.

“Langley said it’s already apportioned in flannel cartridges?” she asked, but Bash neither confirmed nor denied Langley’s words. “How many do you think I can carry at once? One per cannon? Or must I try to carry more? I’m strong. I can do it.”

Still no reply.

Maggie couldn’t make out a thing as he led her on a winding path through the belly of the ship. The magazine was certainly well hidden, but then she supposed it would have to be, to protect it from the blast of a well-placed enemy cannon.

“How many guns on a brigantine?” she asked, hurrying to catch up, unsure how she’d ever find her way out of this labyrinth again, let alone quickly enough to suit the gunners.

“The Revenge has fourteen,” he answered gruffly, “but someone else can worry about all that.”

“What do you mean?” Maggie asked, stopping short, though he kept walking. When he didn’t break his stride or even glance back at her she called, “Stop,” and just as he’d promised in his berth last night, he froze right where he was standing. Oh, to be back in that cozy alcove now, with none of this pirate business to get in the way. “It’s my job to carry the powder, Bash,” a reminder for herself as much as for him.