Deruptae fides et improvisi eventi [America]

[England]

13th May, 1701
Kingston, Jamaica

It was still early, some hours short of noon and the full heat of a West Indies day. All the windows were propped open, for what little good it did, and the wheeling birds outside were in a fresh frenzy over some new haul—which they were carrying, inconsiderately, into the yard arms and traces of all manner of ship. Like Port Royal before her, Kingston asked few questions.

Inside the drawing room, the island gave ground to dark cherry wood panelling, heavy furniture and the brass and polish that made even the furthest flung reaches of England’s territory unequivocally... his.

Sir William Beefton’s neckcloth was exceptionally white, and his face exceedingly red. While the heat was uncomfortable, Arthur was surviving with his sleeves loose and as little movement as possible—as were they all. The more likely culprit was the decanter already open on the Governor’s desk, but none of the men present had had the virtue to declined.

Now, if only he could place that ruddy ship. England knew he should be listening. The Spanish attack was one of many, but in the current situation it might quickly become a good deal more than it had been. Having heard the story three times already (a more faithful recounting, he imagined, conducted in by far the best place for intelligence—and rum) didn’t excuse him from giving Captain Moorbank his attention. (Lord have mercy, his head hurt.) But the ship he’d seen this morning, an hour out, was now among the masts trimmed down and anchored, her flags and rigging clearly visible through the window. It felt familiar in a way that was bothering him, suspiciously. He’d never sailed the little American merchant--would have had no reason to, but nor would he have had reason to sail anything he could have been confusing her with. Soon enough the wind would be coming in high off the water, not yet forming the full-on gusts that would herald trouble. Conditions for a swift journey were perfect at the leading edge of the most dangerous months, and it wasn’t at all strange that the sloop might be taking advantage to get a last shipment of molasses through to New England before the hurricane season. Yet...

“They left a mess,” Edwards revised, sarcastically, somewhere to his left. “I’d hardly call it a raid.”

“The matter of their competence—or incompetence—in mounting a mess doesn’t change a bloody thing. It was entirely unprovoked.”

“Relatively speaking.”

“News of Charles’ death likely reached them when it did us. If we’re sensible we’ll credit an easy time of it to nothing more.”

“And of the Maroons?”

“Bloody savages.”

“I don’t believe that’s what Sir Beefton was asking.”

“Answers it, though,” Carlington put in, droll, jaw propped on his fist.

Edwards coughed suspiciously and Moorbank found somewhere else to look that wasn’t at the Governor’s face.

“Galvanised, inconvenient and put down,” Carlington went on, unperturbed.

“Then it’s all in order,” Beefton interrupted, wrapping his first knuckle on a sealed dispatch and nailing the room with an impatient eye. Moorbank, in particular, as the man was to take the official report back to London. “What of Spain?”

The pause was not a pleasant one. England pulled his attention from the window and the sea outside it to find all five men observing him. Arthur put down his glass, hot and irritable. It wasn’t like every single one of them didn’t know already. Captains were worse than women.

Both the untidily scrawled letter and the sealed note from the Admiralty were in the same pocket, and came out together when he reached for them. The coarse American paper rasped against his shirt as he tucked it away again, handing the opened letter over to the Governor—his reason for being here, after all. And so absurdly and disagreeably early in the morning.

“We have been prohibited from any and all Spanish trade. They have done as much to the Dutch, and His Majesty expects we shall enjoy a more sympathetic relationship with the latter, and exponentially more trouble from the former. But not at our cost, Gentleman.”

Looks were exchanged, before Carlington lifted his head from his fist.

“Well,” he said, at length, “It’s the way we’ve always done it.” What Spain would not give them, they’d make up. One way or another.

What he wasn’t saying was what everyone was thinking. Surely this meant war? And why were they not yet pursuing it?

Between the heat, his pounding head and all the answer entailed, England wasn’t going to explain. It was impossible to give them the truth, anyway. Antonio was thick and Francis was a bastard, and together they were going to spawn the ugliest dynasty the world had ever seen. Since the last had been propagated by dribbling inbred buffoons, it didn’t bare thinking about.

The brass around the handsome barometer mounted on Beefton’s desk was polished well enough to reflect his face, in all its overheated irritation. Highly enough to reflect the sliver of face at the door way, as well. England blinked in surprise, then narrowed his eyes as it disappeared. Everyone shot him a surprised glance as Arthur tossed back the last of what was in his glass and stood, seizing upon the opportunity.

“Gentlemen,” he said, cordially, and left them to it.

Outside, Jamaica was attempting to become one with the doorjamb, determined to hide and give him a murderous look all at once. The boy was only wearing half of the clothes Arthur had had him properly dressed in for breakfast, in some passing attempt at civilisation while he was here. The shoes were gone entirely, and the entire ensemble would have been laughable if not for the fact that Jamaica’s home was a pit of cutthroats. England hadn’t forgotten their very first meeting in the wake of Spain’s eviction: the boy had stabbed a fish knife straight into his thigh and bolted out of a second floor window.

Jamaica was beginning to inch away from him now, and England caught the boy’s arm before he fled entirely—a good bit more gently than he might have been inclined to, considering what he’d heard about the latest attack. Spain’s men had almost completely wiped out Jamaica’s natives, but that didn’t stop their infernal mountain tribes joining in the brigandry whenever the Spanish put guns in their hands. The young colony struggled like an eel as England lifted him away from the doorway and the Governor’s resuming information. The slave revolts did more than worsen tensions, and Arthur was well aware Beefton couldn’t stand the boy he’d had forced into his care.

The window at the end of the hall opened out over the port from a better angle, spilling a breeze into the stuffy heat, and England made for it while Jamaica continued to accidentally knock an increasingly sullen heel into his stomach. The boy hated all of them, so England wasn’t inclined to take it personally. That didn’t mean he was in any mood to take it at all.

“Jamaica,” he warned. Jamaica ignored him, flicking at the tassels of his left epaulette, and this time England let him fall through his hands, dumping the colony tartly on his feet. When Jamaica made an enraged yelp and went to slip him, he spun him by the shoulders to face the harbour. “Don’t be difficult, boy. I can drag you back in there for a lecture, or you can be useful for once.” He pointed through the open window towards the merchant sloop, making sure Jamaica followed him. He had struck upon the solution, or at the very least saving himself another argument with the Governor. “Crew manifest, course and cargo. Preferably not from the dock master.”

Jamaica just glowered at him, and then struck off up the hall without a word. England didn’t have any delusions that he’d actually do it, but he was going down himself. Besides, he didn’t want to listen to another tirade about bloody savages in this house. How the devil did they think you took an island?

Raised voices reached down the hall, and England turned to follow Jamaica’s footsteps. Damn the lot of them. It was far too early.


~


Sodom of the New World she had been, but Port Royal now lay tipped and gutted in the sand, pillaged raw and tented over by canvas and some vague intention of rebuilding. Her unfortunate shadow sat across the bay, and even now a Baptist was bleating at the corner of two taverns, about divine retribution and pestilence and the weather in hell for all Arthur cared. The days of buccaneers were—supposedly—over, but the lecherous soul of Jamaica’s paradise-like waters certainly hadn’t changed. The dogs in the gutter and the trollops in the window dominated by nights, and often the reverse was true of the morning.

England wasn’t supposed to like Jamaica on principle. He certainly wasn’t supposed to approve, but when it came to the palm laden cliffs and white sand, they were all liars one and together. But at that precise moment, he had little affection for the treasure-hearted cesspit. He’d had an exceptionally poor night’s sleep, which was understandable. The Navy ship who’d made port last night carried the worst of news, and to cap it off fresh post had caught up to them from the North, aboard a cutter whose post was about all the Spanish guardacosta had left her with. Alfred’s short letter was full of scratches and imaginatively interpreted spelling, and it had taken England the full walk from his boarding house to the Governor’s residence to make heads or tails of it. Not that he needed to read it at all. The College of William & Mary was long built, and he had still to see it. This was the second such letter to remind him, in large inelegant letters, You promised.

He had promised. He had waited through the first Partition Treaty and the second, and finally for everyone to toss up their sodding hands and decide they weren’t going to war with France after all--yet. Now he had but one pretext to divert his course anywhere near Virginia, and for a wholly less pleasant purpose than previously intended. He’d simply have to hide it well. It was the best he could do, but it was high time it was done.

And to cap it all, there was still that boat. With the letter burning a guilty hole in his pocket, England resolved on finding a hair’o’dog solution to his headache before turning his frustrations loose on whatever the ship was damn well up to.





Notes

Sir William Beefton was actually the governor of Jamaica from 1693 to 1702. I could not make up a name that preposterously British.

Port Royal was destroyed by an earthquake in 1692. The buildings were sucked down in the liquefied sand, and the main port settlement relocated to Kingston just across the water. The attempted rebuilding here mentioned would be destroyed again by fire in 1703.

The Taíno were the original inhabitants of Jamaica, but at the time of Jamaica’s capture in 1655, the Spanish had severely diminished the island’s native population. There were still Taínos living in the mountains, however, alongside escaped slaves and slaves the Spanish had cut loose when they lost the colony. They were called the Maroons, and had this little habit of attacking at suspiciously opportune moments. With Spanish guns.

Charles II's death 1700 ended Habsburg rule in Spain. The Habsburgs were indeed inbred—so inbred the last of their legitimate line was incapable of siring a successor.

William III, King of England, lacked enough support among his own elites to declare war against France, reluctantly recognizing France’s choice of Spanish ruler, Philip V, in April 1701.

By 1702 it was war anyway, the War of Spanish succession spilling out across the Atlantic in Queen Anne’s War.

[America]

Date: May, 1701
Kingston, Jamaica

Somehow, Alfred hadn't planned for all of this to be so complicated. It had started with a letter, of course...Alfred just wanted Arthur to see his new college. Arthur was always so busy, but the College of William and Mary was a really, REALLY big building! And it was definitely the most awesome college that had ever been built, so it seemed obvious that Arthur would definitely make time to come and see it! Arthur's initial reply had been even more awesome: a promise that he'd definitely come and see it!

...But then the college had been finished and there'd been no sign of Arthur anywhere in the colonies. Alfred had sent another letter, wondering if Arthur had forgotten (but no, that was silly, of course Arthur wouldn't forget it, he was too big and strong and smart to forget something this important!) but the reply to that letter had been slightly chiding. He'd come when he could, just like he'd said before, and besides the College of William and Mary wasn't going anywhere now was it?

That wasn't what he'd said, Alfred thought to himself. And even though Alfred knew that someone really important like Arthur had lots of responsibilities, it was still frustrating to wait around all the time. Really, the college was just as much an excuse to spend time with Arthur as it was anything else. And why couldn't Arthur simply do all his responsible things from the colonies? Then Arthur could get his work done AND Alfred would get to see him! Everybody won that way!

...And then it had occurred to Alfred that the same result could be had if he went to England. Besides, Alfred hadn't been to England before. Arthur always talked about it, especially London, but seeing it would be even more fun. It would be an adventure! An awesome adventure! Alfred had eagerly thrown that into his last letter to Arthur, too - if Arthur wasn't going to come to the colonies, then Alfred was going to come to HIM.

Of course, making the plan was the easy part: getting to London was harder. For starters, Alfred knew that the tutors and all those housekeepers Arthur paid to chase him around and keep things tidy would never agree to putting him on a ship. So Alfred resolved to be extra-super-sneaky instead! Making it seem like he was going to be having an adventure in the forest for a little while, like he sometimes did, Alfred sneakily snuck himself down to the nearest port. Then it was a matter of finding a ship that was heading to London as soon as possible, sneaking on board, and hiding inside as it sailed.

...Alfred's sneaky ways had lasted him through the first day or so, until one of the sailors overhead him snoring in their cargo hold. Hauled rather summarily in front of the captain, Alfred hadn't had time to marvel at the fact that there was nothing but wide-open ocean on all sides. The captain was colonial-born and when he heard Alfred's heart-wrenching tale of how he was only trying to see his 'older brother' who worked in London, who Alfred hadn't seen for years and years and years, and couldn't he pretty please stay on the ship until they reached London, and Alfred could work really hard to pay for his keep...well, the man seemed rather swayed by Alfred's earnestness and his heartfelt pleas.

"I'm afraid you've got it mixed up, however," the captain had said next, "We'd just come in from London when you slipped on board. Our current destination is Kingston, in Jamaica."

But after they delivered the cargo they were going to pick up in Jamaica, the captain added, their next voyage was to carry a large load of fresh Carolina tobacco straight to England.

"Then can I stay on board until you reach England!?"

[/color] Alfred had exclaimed, "I'll work really, REALLY hard! I can work really hard, I'm really strong for my age!"[/color]

The captain didn't quite agree to it outright, but he didn't say no either...and that was how Alfred found himself as a cabin boy on the Willow. His job was mostly to keep the deck clean, and to wash the windows - the portholes, using all the right terms made Alfred feel extremely nautical - and to polish things that the sailors told him to polish. But the whole thing was so different and so much fun that Alfred couldn't help but follow the sailors around, asking them what that was, how did that work, what was that thing for, and all sorts of nosy, inquisitive questions. Keeping Alfred out of the rigging was impossible as well, as the young colony had long since perfected climbing like a squirrel. Still, the sailors all seemed mildly flattered by the questions (especially since Alfred had an honest interest in everything, was a fast learner, and didn't get a big head about anything the men taught him) and by the time Jamaica broke the edge of the horizon, Alfred had been upgraded from cabin boy to ship's mascot.

Now, however, they were at the docks. Kingston seemed really strange, but Alfred wasn't allowed to leave the Willow to explore it any. He had to settle for sneaking peeks of it while cleaning the cargo hold out. It was rather sticky and hot outside, like a Jamestown summer, so Alfred might have been happy to stay in the relative coolness of the ship if not for a certain conversation he was overhearing just now.

The captain and first mate had just come down, apparently looking to see how much space was in the cargo hold for the molasses they'd come to Kingston to buy. Alfred was behind a large box and so they didn't realize he was there while they were talking. Alfred might've alerted them to his presence too, if not for the fact that they were talking about him.

"The lad's a chipper one, ain't he? Think his energy'll last all the way to London?" the first mate was saying.

"I shouldn't think we'll find out," the captain replied.

Alfred froze where he was.

"A boy that like...surely his family is worried to tears about him. I'm going to see to it personally that he's delivered safe and sound back to them."

The first mate chuckled at that.

"Ah, he won't be happy to 'ear that!"

"I've got a son back home myself who's about that age," the captain replied firmly, "I wouldn't let him run off to sea any more than I'm sure Alfred's family would."

"We'll just keep it quiet until we're back in the colonies, then?"

The conversation moved into something else, and the voices faded as the captain and first mate headed back above, but down below Alfred was still frozen in place. Oh no! This was going to ruin everything! Especially since the captain seemed like the kind of man who wouldn't take 'I don't have any parents' for an answer, even if that was the truth...

...But then again...Alfred slipped up abovedecks and really looked at all the other ships in the port. This whole place was owned by England too, right? (Arthur seemed to have a lot of stuff he owned. It was just more proof of how awesome he was, of course!) All the ships had British flags on them too...maybe one of those ships could get Alfred to London instead! And besides, Alfred had worked really hard the whole way to Jamaica - he'd paid his keep for the ride, right? That meant he wasn't a liar!

Decision made, Alfred once again went into super-sneaky mode. He couldn't leave a note because all the paper and ink was in the captain's cabin (to which the captain and first mate had retreated a few minutes ago), but that couldn't be helped. Instead, Alfred worked on finding a super-sneaky way to sneak himself off the Willow - the gangplank wouldn't work, everyone would see him leaving!

The lines that tethered the Willow to the dock proved much more interesting...when no one was watching, Alfred sneakily climbed over the side of the ship, grabbed onto one of the thick lines with his arms and legs, and started wriggling his way away from the ship. It was hard and the rope scratched and Alfred almost fell in trying to get from the rope to the dock proper, but at last he was sprawled belly-flat on the hard wooden planks of the Kingston dock!

'I bet Arthur's gonna be really impressed when he hears how amazing and sneaky I can be!'[/color] Alfred cheerfully thought.

Someone else was amazed, too: when Alfred got to his feet and dusted the worst dirt off his clothes (though they were in a sad state by now, he hadn't thought to bring a change with him and there was nothing to bathe in at sea), he saw that a boy about his age with brown skin and no shoes on was staring at him.

Alfred stared back for a moment, puzzled. Then he grinned and waved at the boy, glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone on the Willow had noticed his daring escape (they hadn't, it seemed), before heading off into the crowds of people at a brisk walk. It really was too hot and sticky around here, but there was a breeze off the ocean that made it a lot more bearable. And now that he was on shore in a strange new place, Alfred couldn't help but want to see everything! He'd have plenty of time to figure out which ship here would actually take him to London later - Arthur wasn't going anywhere, now was he?[/center]

----
- Alfred is now running loose in Kingston, filthy and clueless. Jamaica clearly spotted him just then, but I'll leave his reaction and naming liberties for the captain of the Willow up to you~
- Actually, I'll leave a lot of the details up to you. Alfred can't be bothered to pay attention to them~ XD

[England]

The dingy bolthole was built with a door half-set into the ground, three rough-cut steps down to enclose the interior away from the sun. England had bypassed the respectable for the reliable, free to reach up distractedly and loosen his collar. Rum fitted the sweltering heat and spice of the Caribbean better than tea did; was as synonymous with it in taste as salt was with the sea. Both stuck to the back of the throat relentlessly, raw and often unpleasant. But as distinct as they were, the whole muffled murk of the tavern was still a comfortable echo of London’s gin houses. They both had the same prohibition against smiling before noon, and the heavy, unwashed threat of violence for anyone inconsiderate enough to speak loudly of a morning.

Sitting in the middle of it all wearing royals, however, wasn’t one of life’s sensible decisions—jacket on or off. England chose not to give a jolly roger whether people were looking at him; not a single one of them had half the sordid stories to their name that he did. His attention was elsewhere, flipping through the salt-stiff pages newly delivered into his possession. (And besides, there was only so many times you could be stabbed down a dark alley before it all started to seem a bit redundant.)

Arthur was looking over the Willow’s log, since Jamaica had been kind enough to lift it from the captain’s cabin. It detailed every port and every outgoing from the ship’s accounts, but England couldn’t find anything wrong with the figures or the duration of her voyages. And there was something wrong. Now he had it in his hands, he was absolutely sure of it. But the details, at least, were so well calculated, and so meticulously kept, that England was convinced the purser was either a church man or dangerously close to murder. There was nothing for it—he’d have to go and poke around, which was a bloody pain. American merchants were a boisterous, agitated lot. England couldn’t understand why. Alfred was normally perfectly agreeable. (And if his memory was somewhat selective on that account, he couldn’t be expected to remember everything that went on in his empire.)

Even if it hadn’t yielded any answers, the log book had been a nice touch. If it were possible to take him off the island, England reflected, Jamaica would be bloody useful—at least when he was being half-way agreeable. What he could do if he dropped the boy into Paris, or even Madrid…

Unlike the young countries of Europe, constantly shuttled about hither and thither, none of the major powers—himself included—had gone so far as to bundle up the little colonies of the New World and ship them back home like their crates of gold and sugar. It was only odd when he really stopped to think about it. The rules out here were nothing like the old takeovers in Europe. Arthur had hardly enjoyed his brief stint in Denmark’s house (detested herring to this day), but he’d been small enough to pick up bodily and that had been that—there’d been no question of leaving him in his own house. Was it the colonies’ motley, diluted populations? The geographical distance, or the fluidity of their borders? They certainly didn’t seem fragile in the common sense. Arthur didn’t have any conclusive answers, but he knew what they all seemed to know, one way or another: he couldn’t take Jamaica back to Europe, just as certainly as he could not take America or Bermuda or any of the countless others. For a holiday, perhaps, but Arthur had never indulged the possibility: he was away at sea too often; there was always work waiting at home; he could hardly entrust them to just anyone for a return journey he might be indisposed to make. They were all excuses of varying degrees of validity—and of course, some of them were blatant criers. Very well, one was a blatant crier, but Arthur wasn’t sure he’d have the starch, once he’d got him to London, to ever send him home again. And down that road lay an uncomfortable feeling of foreboding. Fledgling colonies perished easily. He’d never be able to forgive himself if something happened to Alf—to any of them, and so it was better to pretend it were impossible—to himself as well as to them.

His thoughts were broken by a quick burst of Spanish, assaulting him from where Jamaica was milling with his shoulders propped against the curved bar. England reached to tuck the ledger into his pocket—alongside the letter, which for a moment actually felt like it had kicked him. England huffed; his heart was clearly still unused to the cut of rum after weeks back on brandy and good ale.

“In English,” Arthur cut him off, standing. He collected his jacket, shrugging the fabric reluctantly back over his shoulders and leaving the collar untucked. Jamaica could use English or he could be quiet. England normally didn’t much care which, but he wasn’t speaking Spanish to one of his possessions.

Instead of making a face at him, Jamaica kept to heel as they made their way back outside into the sun. “Are there white slaves now, too?” he blurted out, when they made the street.

Caught off-guard, England almost stepped on him; the colony was practically right under his feet, and where had that come from? No matter what had prompted it, however, he didn’t much want to have this conversation again. It was an ugly one. Life was life and you got on with it. “Indentured servants, not slaves,” he responded, shortly. “We’ve discussed this before.”

Jamaica shrugged his shoulders, looking away. Which meant he didn’t want England to see his face—never a good sign amongst children.

For pity’s—

“Well?” England demanded, feeling the weight of the inevitable. “Out with it.” Where did all of them learn to sulk so well?

“There was someone escaping from the ship,” Jamaica muttered, though it took him the length of the street and a kick at some scattered stones to do it. “He even climbed the anchor rope,” he added, with a little awe in his voice, then shut his mouth mulishly.

England hiked an eyebrow at him—or maybe at the Heavens. It wasn’t like Jamaica to be so naïve, and apparently the boy had come to the same conclusion in the short seconds between speaking and hearing himself. Men escaped their duties at the drop of a hat—or at the drop of a bodice, far more frequently. But he supposed he couldn’t completely misunderstand the basis for such a fanciful hope—that slave ship revolt had been a nasty business.

There was no point reiterating reality. They walked on in silence, the smaller island leading the way through Kingston’s backstreets, scuffing his bare heels all the way as England bit back his scathing comments for later. They’d been perfectly good shoes, and the streets of Kingston were no better than the streets of London. Rats made their skittering way through the shadows—the slops and saffron of a port city were grubby underfoot, dropped from crates and carts. They passed a least one sleeping drunk who Arthur suspected would sleep, now, until his eyes began to rot in his skull. Forty years ago pirates had been so bloody and numerous in Jamaica that one could be dragged from the street and forced, at pistol point, to drink of their ill-gotten winnings while they laughed, slaughtered each other and roared for more. Now they did it in pockets and backstreets, where the King’s men couldn’t see them and where no soldier went after dark. Blood wealth had never ceased to run in Jamaica’s veins, but that didn’t mean he had to go traipsing around in it with his bare toes.

When they came out onto the dock, England had no trouble picking out the right ship. She greeted him point blank with a renewed sense of ill-purpose. Up close the Willow was neat and trim, her decks recently swabbed to within an inch of the grain, but the industry of unloading was under way and trekking sand and dirt over them afresh. Arthur could see a man striding about the deck, his voice that drawling English starting to be symptomatic of the colonies: something about paper not walking away all on its own, and to search the hold all over again. He disappeared before England could make the deck, leaving his uniform and his presence to be hailed by another harassed looking man.

Benjamin Orter was the first mate aboard the Willow, and looked taken aback to be informed that his ship was in danger of being searched.

“We’re giving it a good search ourselves,” he admitted, with none of the apprehension Arthur had been expecting. “You’re welcome to join in.”

Jamaica’s odd question still fresh in his mind, England eyed him closely. “You understand the unchartered transportation of slaves—” he began.

The first mate gave a bark of alarm, cutting him off quickly.
“Nothing of the like! You can search us top to bottom. We’re missing our cabin boy, is what it is. Lad was supposed to stay on the ship; no-one’s seen him about but we’re not so large he could hide this long. We’re a bit worried he’s given us the slip.”

A cabin boy? All this kerfuffle for a cabin boy? Frankly suspicious, England glanced at Jamaica (who was half way across the deck and peering into a crate with a chicken in it). But the colony was listening close enough to half glance, guiltily, in their direction before sticking his fingers back through the slats. England was beginning to wonder if this was turning into one of those pixie traps, where the only reason you ever had the sense of foreboding in the first place was based on a premonition of the headache involved in investigating it. “You’re wasting your time. He was seen climbing the ropes down, a three-quarter hour past.”

“Christ—are you sure?”

“And equally sure he’ll turn up when he’s hungry,” England huffed, astounded by the fuss. “Boys always do.”

The first mate reached up to rub sweat off his brow—which only managed to smear it along his uneasy frown lines. “Aye, normally I’d agree with you, but—well, he’s rather young…” His gaze caught on Arthur’s uniform as though he were actually seeing it for the first time. “You couldn’t tell us which ships are bound for London, could you? To tell you the truth, the lad wasn’t signed on. Stowaway, trying to get to London on his own. Captain reckoned we’d keep him on board until we were safely back in colonies—on account of being a family man himself, and Alfred’s a good lad. Bright as button. You wouldn’t believe it, but he picked up one of—here, are you all right?”

England had gone pale to his fingernails. He was still looking at the first mate, but he had entirely ceased to see him. It was as though the universe had come together in one horrible, blindingly obvious moment. The letter. The masts. The déjà vu.

No… no, it was utterly impossible. America was just a child, and hadn’t England left an army of attendants for precisely this purpose? To make sure he stayed out of trouble. Fumbling, England drew the letter out again, unfolding it hurriedly for the post mark. It was stamped from Virginia, over two months ago.

With a feeling of dread, Arthur folded the letter back up far more calmly, with neat, unhurried motions.



Within the hour Kingston’s port was in a churlish uproar. The wind was fair, the tide turning, and the HMS Expedition was straddled threateningly across the bay with her signal flags billowing:

NO. SHIP. SHALL. LEAVE. HARBOUR.

The captain of the Willow hadn’t minded some of his men being included in the search (had volunteered himself)—had minded in what was politely called ‘strong terms’ when he was ordered to turn out his entire land crew to it, as they knew what they were looking for. England might have threatened the yard arm, he couldn’t entirely remember—he’d been too busy shouting, because if it was his fault the boy had been so thoroughly stupid it was their fault for being outwitted by a child. (Then he’d demanded to know the last time anyone had fed Alfred, which confused everyone.)

If they’d only kept hold of him another hour. One blasted hour. And Jamaica, never mind that Jamaica never did a thing he was told: when it would have worked in England’s favour to be disobeyed, of course he’d chosen to listen—to stick to his task, no less. America had even waved at him. What had the cosmic alternative been? Krakens?

Speaking of Jamaica, he was the only one who seemed to be enjoying himself in the raucous. When the Governor sent a runner after England to ask what the devil he thought he was doing, Arthur sent the colony back with a verbal reply that it didn’t matter what he was doing, so long as the man shut up and did it. He imagined his abruptness had grown to obscenity in the retelling, and honestly didn’t care. Garrisoned red coats were being stationed two to a ship to watch the gangplanks, and they’d move on to searching the holds if they had to—if the Governor didn’t have a complete apoplexy.

Watching one colony streak off towards the town, England rationally understood that America was going to be fine, so long as he didn’t make it out of port. After all, Jamaica wasn’t much older than Alfred; he wasn’t remotely as strong, either, and yet there was no reason to worry about him, was there? But Jamaica wasn’t trusting. England wasn’t blind; he knew full well that he coddled America. Coddled him to the point of making himself a mockery in Europe—and clearly too much for the boy to take his warnings seriously. Too many stories of daring buccaneer escapes, that had to be it; not nearly enough grisly detail about what followed it all. Alfred had never seen a boy his own age strappado’d—at least Arthur fervently hoped he hadn’t—

Never mind. Never mind.

With what could be done, done, England was left to start down the streets of Kingston, for once utterly indifferent to the heat, trying to think what Alfred might do fresh off a ship for the first time. If only they hadn’t fed him, the answer would have been simple. But there were corners and curiosities galore, Alfred was curious to a fault, and he wished to God he were closer to home—he could have used the help. Fairies were incredibly good at finding things, but without time to placate the locals they’d send him down every wrong alley and passageway imaginable. There were always ghosts—and plenty of them in a place like this—but it was the middle of the day. If they’d had no luck by nightfall, well… he would sacrifice terrifying the life out of the boy to find him. By the pitch of his shrieking if need be. It would serve him right for the heart attack England would have been having if he could have afforded to waste the time.




----
- He will absolutely send ghosts after Alfred if he has to.

- Attempted rationalisation as to why European powers tended to take captured nations into their houses but no-one took the New World colonies home with them. How could you resist otherwise?

- England might like to think he treated all his colonies equally. I don’t believe for a second that he actually did.

- Sorry this took so long. Er. And is so long. This week has been hellish.

[America]

Date: May, 1701
Kingston, Jamaica

Kingston was unlike almost all the places in the colonies that Alfred had ever been before. For starters, it stank. Of course, there were parts of his cities that were smelly enough, but Alfred could boast that his house was mostly clean and fresh-scented!

It wasn't all bad, though: for all the stink of piss and garbage, there were equally pungent but definitely nicer aromas to tickle his nose. Strange foods made with strange spices tempted Alfred into lingering closer to the harbor proper, but since he wasn't particularly hungry yet the young colony passed all that by in favor of trotting further in amongst the buildings. He could always come back and see if he could get some food later, after he'd seen all the strangeness that Kingston had to offer.

The people were some of the most strange and interesting things about Kingston, too. Some of them had really odd smells all by themselves: Alfred ducked behind a few unsuspecting people, sniffing out what he could like a two-legged hound dog and then darting away before they really noticed him. It must come from eating the weird food they had around here, he eventually decided. Their clothes were funny too, and everyone here was wearing less than the colonists did back home.

It was probably because of the heat: farther away from the docks, the breeze was gone and the weather was really sticky and gross and HOT. Alfred's already filthy shirt was getting soaked with sweat, but the idea of taking off some clothes like the people here didn't really appeal to him. It just felt indecent somehow...and so, Alfred continued to stick out like a fully-clothed and very sweaty sore thumb.

Then there were the languages! Heavy accents made English sound nearly as incomprehensible as all the others he was hearing - was that guy over there speaking Spanish, maybe? Or was that French? - and Alfred almost regretted deliberately not paying attention to any of his foreign language tutors.

...Almost.

But the strangest part, Alfred had to admit, was how everything felt. These people were...different, and it wasn't just because of how they dressed and smelled and talked. Even when he'd been in among crowds of colonists he didn't know personally, Alfred had never felt this...out of place. He wasn't sure he liked the feeling.

'...I bet it's because I've never been here before,'

[/color] Alfred decided, nodding to himself, 'That's got to be it!'[/color]

Of course that had to be it. How silly! Good thing Arthur wasn't here, or Alfred would probably be even more embarrassed by his reaction. The next time he came to Kingston, Alfred told himself, he'd be an experienced world traveler and this silly feeling would be long gone.

Shouts from around the corner of a building caught Alfred's attention just as several figures bolted out into the open. At the intersection of streets, they scattered in all directions - and one ran right into Alfred, knocking them both down!

"Ow!"[/color]

Blinking, Alfred stared at the dark-skinned kid (only a few years older than Alfred was - well, than he looked) now sprawled on top of him. (Just like the kid Alfred had seen on the docks, this kid didn't have shoes on either.) The kid lifted his head after a moment, clearly just as confused as to why he was now on top of Alfred on the ground. Both of them nearly jumped out of their skins when the angry shouting resumed - extremely loud and not far away at all!

The boy scrambled to get to his feet, as did Alfred. They'd both just managed it when several of the dirtiest, angriest, longest-beard-wearing-est people Alfred had ever seen burst around the corner - pistols in hand, red-faced, and undeniably angry as hell! Alfred didn't even know what was going on but the second the men appeared the boy that had run into him took off down the road at a dead sprint - and with the men looking like they'd probably shoot Alfred on the spot despite his not being involved in whatever they were angry about, the young colony was hot on the boy's heels!

"W-Wait for me!"[/color]

All Alfred got in reply was a glance over the boy's shoulder and a shout of something he didn't understand. At least the boy seemed to understand, because when he suddenly dove behind some large barrels, he grabbed Alfred's wrist and hauled him right into the tiny hiding place the barrels provided.

Both boys held their breath as the group of swearing, angry, gun-toting men stormed past. It wasn't until the sounds began to fade that Alfred and the other boy could finally relax...and giggle in relief and excitement at not being found.

"Who're you?" the boy finally asked.

His accent made the words sound strange, but at least he was speaking English! Alfred would have been sad if his new escape-from-certain-doom buddy didn't speak any languages he could understand.

"I'm Alfred,"[/color] Alfred replied.

The boy nodded. Apparently Alfred's name was all he wanted to know, which was good because explaining why he was in Kingston or anything like that would've been far too complicated.

"'M Juan."

Alfred nodded back.

"Why're those guys chasing you?"[/color]

Juan looked Alfred over for a moment, then grinned.

"Lemme show you! Come on," Juan said.

Since his new friend seemed friendly enough, Alfred had no problems with being pulled by the hand out of their hidey-hole and down the street. Even though he was still glancing over his shoulder to see if those guys from before were going to start chasing them again, Alfred couldn't help but grin. This was turning out to be a really great adventure! He'd have to remember all the details for the awesome retelling he was going to give Arthur when Alfred finally made it to London![/center]

----
- Sorry for the delay! I was trying to research stuff on Kingston and don't think I managed it right. If I get any parts of Kingston or Jamaican culture grossly wrong, let me know~

- Basically, Alfred's just been wandering aimlessly through the depths of Kingston. But now he's run into this mulatto kid Juan who's angry-ed up some ne'er-do-well/piratey-types and is now tugging Alfred along to some unknown destination. Clearly this must be a trustworthy lad~! XD

[England]

The sheer number of people with perfectly functional eyesight (in at least one bloodshot eye) who could see a boy and yet entirely fail to see where he had gone was staggering. England had submitted to the necessity of bribery with little preamble, the tradition so well established as to be considered practically courteous here, but what it had produced was nothing short of a plethora of contradictory directions. Nonetheless, Arthur had sent soldiers after each one in equal measure, reutilizing their meagre number and appropriating additions as he found them; whether they were technically his or not. With each inquiry the details with which he needed to describe America grew fewer and fewer, and it couldn’t all be put down to news of the search spreading. Jamaica was a colony, a young one, but Kingston could not have been more different from Jamestown if he’d planned them as Biblical siblings. Alfred had been noticed, and the knowledge was a mixed blessing.

At the very least he’s still wearing shoes, England thought, with a bleak scoff. He watched as two more red-jacketed backs disappeared fruitlessly into the crowd, drumming his fingers tightly on the hilt of his sword. England had been keeping count—his money was running even shorter than his temper, but he could always replace that. The problem was it wasn’t getting them anywhere. The urge to follow his men, to keep throwing resources and himself down random streets in a haphazard search, was only a superficial remedy for a growing sense of alarm. While it still had some chance of immediate success, it had been acceptable, but England finally stopped beneath an awning to jam his jacket sleeves down off his elbow's, stripping the sopping wool off entirely. It hit the base of the building’s wall with a blasphemous, annoyed slap, instantly picking up every bit of dirt and grit. Later, when all this was over, Arthur would have time to be properly appalled with his own disrespect. Cupping both hands into the tepid water barrel, England scrubbed the sweat off his face. He didn't have to glance at the sun to know it had been more than two hours since they'd begun searching, almost three since Alfred had made his escape. Arthur spread his palms out along the rim of the barrel and leaned his weight into them, head bowed and jaw tight. The water he was staring into was murky and barely reflective, but he’d found answers in less.

They’d moved steadily, but there simply weren’t enough men for a watertight dragnet. The city was far too porous, designed for smuggling and subterfuge—he’d practically ensured it; he had had the advantage for years, ever since he’d snatched it part and parcel from Spain, and now he was as surely being served the disadvantage. What they would need—

Was interrupted abruptly as England felt the boom of cannon fire to his teeth. With the rumble still dying over the city, jacket completely forgotten, Arthur strained for the sound of a retort as he pushed his way through the startled crowd towards any street that would lead harbour-ward.

It was a short run. The Expedition’s side was still smoking gently when he got to the front, perhaps half of her gun ports open. At an awkward, arrested angle a smaller vessel was tacking across her, attempting to steer clear. It was a fair distance without a spyglass, but England didn’t think she’d had more than a warning shot. She deserved more than a warning shot, but as his heart climbed back down into his chest (with more dignity than it had got there) Arthur felt a moment of genuine gratitude to Captain Moorbank. The runner was turning back. The Expedition was listing slightly, nonetheless, and he was well aware she was under repair. There was no other reason for the use of the 24-pounders where a 12 would have done, except a show of irritable force—there would be no chase, but there would be an ocean floor and a curt swim back to shore. The message had got through, if the snow’s sails were any indication. Arthur watched her intently, but the simple roil of worst case scenario didn’t get any worse the longer he did. Fear. Fear and nothing more, he told himself, turning his back stiffly. She’d be hauled up; he didn’t have to do it personally.

Drawn out by the same commotion, England almost walked straight into Carlington’s party. The man had at least one of the soldiers he’d just sent off, another Arthur hadn’t seen before, and the captain spared a glance for the crew still struggling in the snow’s rigging as he came up alongside.

“I don’t know what you told the Governor,” he said, winded enough to tell England he’d had the same momentary heart-attack—and probably a similar run, “and I’m not going to ask. But I hope it’s worth firing on our own prospects.”

“They weren’t one of ours,” England retorted, then glanced back over his shoulder—just to make sure his derision wasn’t on him. The other captain shook his head.

“Of course not,” he said, in an urgent undertone. “I mean the bad timing.”

The emphasis took a moment to realign England’s thoughts. When it did click, he almost swore—except that would only give Carlington every reason to suspect the truth, which was that England had forgotten all about it. With good reason, granted, and he could hardly have done otherwise no matter the consequences. But he did have a miniature Navy blockade, and a full town search, on the most disreputable of paydays—after they’d called them in, no less. It was almost funny, except that England didn’t at all care for this turn of irony. At a very reasonable best, things might get ugly in town; at worst a number of dangerous, useful individuals were going to misunderstand. He grit his teeth, turning on the soldier he recognised.

“Nothing at all?” The man practically jumped.

“I can’t say, sir. We split up, sir. There was a disturbance, near the Red Lion. I stayed to help, Tailor went on with your orders.”

“A disturbance,” Carlington reiterated, cutting over the explanation with an edge to his voice. His undertone now made more immediate sense, and England wondered how much time they would have before the trouble really started—the situation had been urgent before, but he hadn’t planned on it getting worse. He certainly couldn’t lift the blockade and risk losing America to the open ocean. The idea of having the boy lost somewhere in town when it all came to a head…

“I’m supposed to give you a choice. I’m not going to.” England said, bluntly, making up his mind and catching Carlington’s raised look. He could hardly explain his position to everyone. It was far too dangerous. The highest generals in any given army; the appropriate Governors sufficient to facilitate his duty—as few as possible were told. And for those who had no concept of him beyond the rank and insignia he was given, these shadowy orders and sudden exertion of authority often did this: an honest officer of any nation could not abide a spy, and it was what Carlington would undoubtedly begin to think he was soon. But it couldn’t be helped. “I’m going to see if that last lead turned up nothing. You’re finding the remnants of that disturbance, and joining me. The sooner we’re done with this, the less damage it can do.”

“And if they end up bringing me?” the captain asked, after a beat. His reply was droll, but it had the hint of suspicion Arthur had been expecting. It was a pity. He’d liked Carlington, and the man’s cavalier irreverence (the kind that only came from ten thousand pounds a year and a Lord for a father). It was the worst part of being a nation, at the end of it all—you had to care all the time, and be twice as ruthless for it.

“One way or another.”







-
If you already have plans for your pirates’ motivations, this doesn’t have to sync, but it easily could~

If I try and tweak this any more, it will never get to you and it’s far far too late as it is >.< heat does not help creativity and I’m so sorry.

[America]

Date: May, 1701
Kingston, Jamaica

Alfred found himself being led by the hand down one narrow Kingston street after another. It was a little strange getting tugged around like that, but Juan didn't seem inclined to let go anytime soon. It probably that he didn't want Alfred getting lost on the way to wherever it was they were going, the colony decided. Besides, it wasn't like Juan was holding his hand tight enough to hurt...that probably wasn't even possible anyway.

The people they were passing on the way were all talking urgently amongst themselves about something. Alfred could barely pick out snippets here and there, but it sounded like everyone was worried about something all of a sudden. All he could do was mentally cross his fingers and hope that the nice crew of the Willow wasn't caught up in whatever thing everyone in Kingston was worried about. Alfred might have needed to have sneak away from the ship, but it didn't mean he disliked them! Not even the captain: the man just wanted to look out for him, that was all. Alfred couldn't help it if the man didn't know Alfred was more than capable of looking after himself.

Juan's final destination turned out to be a run-down house in a back alley. On the outside, it looked like it was falling apart from neglect...but when Alfred was tugged past the creaky door, he decided that maybe it was more that something had smashed the place up. A large section of the back wall was missing, and there were holes in the roof.

"What happened?"

[/color] Alfred asked Juan.

Juan shrugged.

"Hurricane smashed it up. Now it's abandoned, so we live here."

We? Several brown and black-haired heads popped out of hiding at the sound of Juan's voice.

"Juan!" one of them exclaimed.

Before Alfred could blink, four little kids had nearly pounced on his new friend, chatting in rapid foreigny-sounding English and weirdly Englishy-sounding foreign languages. About the only word Alfred could pick up was his new friend's name, but these were unmistakably friends of Juan. Alfred's laughter soon drew their attention his way.

"Whossat Juan?" one of the kids piped up next.

"That's Alfred," Juan said, pulling Alfred over so the kids could get right up in his face, "Found him when I was running."

"Where you from?" the same kid said, "You not from here, right?"

"Err...no, I'm not,"[/color] Alfred hesitantly replied, "I'm from the Virginia colony."[/color]

That was as close enough to a real explanation as Alfred was going to manage today. Besides, the houseful of tutors and housekeepers Arthur insisted he stay with was in Virginia, and Arthur had more-or-less adopted Alfred in Virginia, so Alfred could easily say that that was where he was from without it being a total lie. The little kids looked confused nonetheless, though.

"That's on the continent north of here," Juan explained - apparently he knew what Alfred was talking about.

All three smaller kids now looked extremely impressed.

"Does that mean you got SNOW?" the youngest and smallest one exclaimed.

"Yeah! Don't you get snow?"[/color] Alfred replied.

All four heads rocked side-to-side, and Alfred blinked. Okay, so he'd noticed that the further south you were in the colonies the less it snowed - and when he'd used to wander around in whoever's house was north of the colonies as a tiny little thing, Alfred didn't think it ever stopped snowing there - but Alfred had never thought that he'd find a place so far south that there was no snow at all!

"That's awful! Snow's so much fun! It's bright and white and really cold,"[/color] Alfred exclaimed.

"Can you eat it?"

"Yeah, but it tastes funny."[/color]

Before Alfred knew it, he was sitting on the ground inside the wrecked house, surrounded by the kids, and explaining the wonders of snow and winter as best he could. None of them really seemed to get the idea of being cold, but they all agreed that snow sounded really fun and that was good enough for Alfred! It wasn't until he heard footsteps behind him that Alfred realized that Juan was carrying something over - and that there were more people in the room besides the little kids. There were two more bigger kids, each about as old as Juan.

"This is what we got today," Juan was saying as he set the thing down.

The thing turned out to be a bowl filled with papers and coins. It was money, Alfred belatedly realized. Small bits of gold and silver gleamed out from amongst more ordinary British pounds.

"...Is that why those guys were chasing you?"[/color] Alfred asked, brow furrowing as he slowly put two and two together.

Juan nodded, flashing Alfred a big smile.

"Pirates always have lots of money from robbing ships and things, but when they're drunk it's easy to take their money before they notice!" the boy proudly declared.

"...You stole money? From pirates?"[/color]

Remembering the shouting, gun-wielding men he'd found himself running from maybe an hour ago at most, Alfred had to shake his head and grin. Picking a fight with pirates was something only someone really brave would do! Of course, stealing wasn't exactly heroic either...but if it was from pirates then it surely was okay! Pirates were the bad guys in all the stories Alfred knew, and all their money was already stolen. Stealing from people who stole from others canceled the badness of stealing right out!

Juan just seemed happy that Alfred didn't mind where the money had come from.

"With this, we can buy a lot of food and things," Juan added.

Oh! So they stole from the pirates and gave to the hungry? That settled it, Alfred had no complaints at all. But he was a little confused about why...and eventually, when he got a chance to pull Juan aside and ask him about it, Alfred found himself regretting the question.

All these kids had no parents. Some of them were just orphans, but a few had been kicked out of their families for some reason. Juan didn't explain any of those reasons and Alfred didn't ask. It made his stomach curl just thinking of how that must feel. The closest situation Alfred could think of was if Arthur decided he hated him one day, and it didn't even make sense because why would Arthur ever hate him?

...The point was that together, the group formed their own little family and did their best to feed and clothe themselves. According to Juan, the adults in this part of Kingston knew about the little group and sometimes gave them things if they could spare anything, but otherwise the kids were on their own. Hence the need to steal from pirates.

"Where's your family, Alfred?" Juan finally asked.

Alfred winced. He didn't have parents either, but it was for an entirely different reason. But never before had Alfred genuinely felt bad about it. For consistency's sake, the colony stuck with the same story he'd used on the Willow.

"My brother works in London! I stowed away on a ship to try and get there so I could see him since he's too busy to sail to Virginia to see me. But I got things mixed up and the ship I stowed away on came here instead of going to London."[/color]

Juan nodded, looking thoughtful.

"Kingston gets lots of English ships," Juan replied eventually, "Getting to London's easy, I think. But you can't go now. Something strange is happening at the harbor and no one can sail until it settles down."

Alfred sighed. So that was what everyone had been talking about before...how inconvenient.

"You can stay with us 'til the harbor's back to normal," Juan offered next.

"Really? I can? That's great! Thank you Juan!"[/color] Alfred exclaimed.

Relieved that he wouldn't have to worry about finding a place to sleep, Alfred impulsively gave his new friend a hug. The littler kids were equally excited by the news and Alfred soon having too much fun chasing them around the house and giving piggy-back rides to worry about the distant rumble of cannon fire or what pirates with a grudge might be plotting.[/center]

----
- At the moment, the pirates are plotting to get back at the little brats that thought it was a good idea to rob them. Which shouldn't be hard since where this group lives is kind of an open secret.

- I don't mind waiting~ Your posts are always worth it~ X3

[England]

Every sailor knew the smell of a storm. The air ionized on the tongue; the sails fell silent like the white side of thunder before they snapped. And before that, there was the swell and tension of instinct. England could feel the first stirrings of it, as simple as closed shutters in the afternoon and the suspicious fidget of street hawkers. Kingston was slowly waking up to the smell of trouble, and it grew thicker deeper into the more dilapidated, ramshackle streets. ‘More’ was, of course, used in the traditional sense of the British understatement. Away from the harbour the alleyways shrank closer in on themselves, the doorways grew smaller to bottleneck trouble and authority, and the residents grew thinner. Despite that, Jamaica’s population back here only seemed to grow. What the earthquake had wrought was nothing to the first disastrous years in the West Indies, settlements veritable mills of indentured servants, dead and replaced until the turnover was unsustainable. The African trade had changed everything. Now the molasses in their dark rum would keep most of the residents alive long enough to die in other ways, be they what they would. Arthur stepped around an up-flare of desperation and destitution, raised fists and raised voices spilling out into the street, and left them behind in their faceless doorway with their faceless dispute. He wasn’t indifferent to their plight, God help him, but every city had its underbelly and its bile and Arthur pressed on. The world could not all stand at the tip of a pinnacle, no matter the wealth.

Compared to some, compared even to the majority of Europe, England had no past claim on prolonged prosperity. It made him keen and self-interested, and he cultivated both as admirable qualities in a Nation—as far as he was concerned. The upshot was, the longer he dealt with this combination of unsettling feelings the less he liked it. It was quite the same gut-eating lurch he’d had in the prairie, with Alfred even smaller than he was now, fresh from a nap and out to throw himself under the feet of every danger. Out to terrify the life out of England, it seemed, in a way the island was distinctly disinclined to become acquainted with. It was as unselfish as it was selfish. Arthur had never cared more dearly for something else irrespective of his own wellbeing; for a Nation it was counter-productive in the extreme. He told himself he still didn’t, as he turned over his last orders to Carlington in his mind. Their interests were aligned, were they not? He needn’t feel any torn loyalty on the matter. America was worth more to him in raw capital than a couple of ships beneath Spain’s embargo, or a couple of days’ unrest. If it wasn’t quite the truth, he wasn’t going to give anyone the excuse to tell him otherwise. By nightfall he would have this well and truly dealt with.

By the time he arrived at the Red Lion, England had talked himself back around to firmer ground, his own interests lying sensible once more. A good thing, as the scene that greeted him looked, at first glance, like a battle had been waged—complete with artillery. The ground beneath his boots was tacky and slick, an overturned barrel accounting for the pungent smell of (practically vinegar’d) wine vaporising under the baking sun. Complete with a shabby collection of unsavoury men being bulled and bullied into irons, and the sopping red mush the wine was currently making of the street rubbish, it did look uncannily like carnage. It smelt slightly better, thank God, but very slightly.

Blowing the stench out of his nose, England stepped smartly over one of the larger puddles. He didn’t need to ask the occupation of the troublemakers: they hardly deserved the title, to be sure, but they were nonetheless pirates: richly dressed and dirty with it, far too well fed and far too callus of hand. And sick to the gills with alcohol if they’d been taken by four young redcoats.

“Stay you there,” England ordered loudly, irritable and unwilling to jump another puddle if his boys went marching off. They looked extremely proud of themselves and their captive haul, and at least one of them wasn’t doing what he was supposed to be doing. The soldier who he’d sent off wasted little time jumping the puddle England wouldn’t (and splashing them both with it, damn him).

The inside of the pub wasn’t much better than the out. It seemed a fair number of persons, in distinct excess of their current hung-over number, had woken up furious and with good, if ironic, reason. However the industrious labour of an infuriated landlady and her two kitchen maids was already underway and not to be underestimated; they were more than happy to procure England the heavy chair he asked for, when they took his meaning. From that alone Arthur summarised a fairer estimation of the men: they were infrequent opportunists in these waters, or else they’d have kept better watch on their things. It took no time at all for the story to come out of the overzealous soldier, with frequent and expansive additions from the maids (and that was quite a lot more than Arthur had ever wanted to know about that). What had taken some time and commotion was separating the miscreants into useful and useless. They finally had the most influential bundled inside and down into the chair. As they roped him to it, England stood by the window and wondered if there was a rope in the world that might actually be strong enough to hold America. Because when he finally got his hands on the boy, bundling him up and strapping him down to a chair (albeit a far cleaner one) would be of the greatest temptation. He would have it escorted under armed guard back to Virginia, and quite possibly with Alfred’s feet tarred to the deck.

“Look, we was robbed. Us. We paid our moorin’s; we paid our board. If y’think—”

“I have absolutely no interesting in what you’re going to say,” England cut over the bleating. If he could shout over a storm he could shout over a pirate. He had far more respect for one than he did the other. “I want to know the location of the men who are currently out rectifying your grievous loss of property,” his lip curled slightly, “and the boys who are clearly better at your profession than you are. That is the sum total of what I want to hear out of you.” He had no interest in second rate cut-throats, personally, but the group of children? A group of children with intimate knowledge of every nook and cranny of the island was a very real possibility. But not if they were at this moment in very real danger; if they scattered and went to ground the chance would be well and truly lost.

The man eyed him with a surly eye, clearly less than impressed with Arthur’s lack of epaulets. “Sounds like a threat t’me; an’ here we’ve not stepped a foot wrong. A night in the cells’ll be cleaner than this shithole.” The man smirked crookedly as one of the redcoats had to catch the landlady about the waist before she launched at him herself. He blew her a kiss, of all the inane and repulsive things.

England spared the man a look that could have curdled cream, and glanced out of the window. He thought he could see a flash of Navy blue at the turn of the street.

“I can't be bothered to threaten you," England retorted. More accurately, he didn't have time to. There was no point threatening where a length of rope would do. He nodded stiffly to the soldier holding the belt lent them. It was hooked unceremoniously around the man’s grubby neck and jerked taut until the man gurgled. It was jerked again until the man jerked bodily, and England nodded again. The belt was re-fastened at that tightness.

“Tell me or don’t. Breathe or don’t,” Arthur suggested, with no hint of pity.

The inarticulate spitting didn’t sound much like cooperation. Feeling a pulse start at his temples, England gestured for his men to carry on. Out of the window the small party of figures had resolved itself into two officers and three unknown individuals. They looked, in elements, much the same as the suffocating man behind him. There was a certain canny swagger to the sunburn of their faces; their equipment was mismatched and well sharpened.

The difference, England knew, was a matter of severity. He hoped his men were all right; one looked to be limping slightly.

“Hold,” he said, belatedly. Arthur’s attention had wandered. The man had been trying to say something for the last few seconds.

In his chair, the pirate gulped down the taste of air the soldier allowed him, licking a lip split and re-split in the salt air. “Gold enough,” the man gasped, “to replace meshare of what—”

England drew his pistol, reversing it in his hand to protect his own knuckles, and struck the miscreant (chair-attached) sideways with a thick crack of flesh and teeth cut right through it. Yes it was temper, it was ruddy and inexcusable temper, and the certain fact that when this bottom-feeding whoreson took one blurry, rum-sotted look at the real pirates outside he would rather swallow his own tongue than speak. Arthur slipped the pistol right way up, and aimed.

“Mary King’s Close!” It was garbled with blood, but it was recognisable. Arthur cocked the pistol regardless; named after a Scottish street? For that he was more than tempted. “El—El Ancla. They’ll go from El Ancla!” It sounded more like ‘claughg’ but England knew what he meant. Scottish and Spanish in one sentence and he knew what that meant. Fate did have a sense of humour.

Arthur looked down at the mess of unwashed pirate, unendeared, but the establishment was enough of a mess. “Thank you.” Manners were manners.

Edwards was standing in the doorway, blocking the other men from view. He had a nasty bruise spreading up his cheekbone and a bloody hand, but looked to be solidly on his feet. Fortunate, as Arthur was hardly going to let loose buccaneers without accompanying them; Edwards was shorter than Carlington, and he could borrow his jacket without looking silly. Since it was already stained, he needn’t feel guilty when it got ruined.

England belted his pistol and went to greet him, knowing now, at least, precisely what he was going to say to the mistrusting sword-edge of the Empire’s unofficial navy. Everyone was stuck in port, and the fellow on the floor was of the crew to blame.







n.a.

. Though by this stage steps had been taken to curtail the overwhelming levels of seaborne brigandry symptomatic of the 1600s, the British knowingly kept and utilised pirates in the area like an unofficial, self-funding auxiliary force to savage Spain’s interests. With precisely the same tactics, England is sending one group of pirates after another to do what he can’t hope to do with half the speed or efficiency with redcoats.

. Pirates were almost always in better physical condition than their legitimate counterparts. Their ships were over-manned for the added strength in boarding parties, leading to shorter shifts and an easier distribution of work. They took clothes and provisions from the ships they looted, and their equipment and appearance more often reflected an eccentric collection of their betters than the traditional buccaneer fare, at least when they made land to enjoy themselves.

. The first West Indies settlements had a grisly survival rate. They were staffed mostly by indentured white servants, and the turn over due to death was almost enough to close down the budding industry before the introduction of slaves. It was perceived that the Africans, being from a hotter indigenous climate, were better suited to the labour. This was potentially correct in part, but it was also simply easier for the death toll of slaves to be ignored in favour of economic gain.

[America]

Date: May, 1701
Kingston, Jamaica

Alfred pouted as the littler kids crowded close, waiting.

Then the sound came again - the gurgling whine - and all four of them nearly fell over from laughing. It made Alfred pout even more. His stomach's grumbling didn't sound that silly!

"Again! Do it again!" the kids demanded.

Alfred stuck his tongue out at them, which also made them laugh. He kept getting their names mixed up, but none of them minded. And Alfred really liked getting to play with them! He didn't usually get to play like this with the children in his own house. Something about it being 'improper' was the excuse those housekeepers and tutors always used. And then they always got so grumpy when Alfred pointed out how little he cared about whether he was being proper...and eventually he'd get bored of the conversation and wander off. In any case, Alfred was making up for lost time now!

But even though he was happy that he could make the kids laugh like that, the reason was something Alfred really didn't enjoy. He was hungry! Starving, even! He hadn't eaten since back on the Willow, and that had to have been hours ago! (Alfred wasn't sure how long it had been, but he was very certain it was a really unreasonably long time to go without eating.)

The kids thought Alfred's poor protesting tummy made the best noises, and even tickling them into submission hadn't kept them from laughing when his stomach began demanding food. And there wasn't any food to be had, that was the problem. Juan and the other older kids had already said they needed to wait until the pirates they'd stolen from left before all the money they'd stolen could be used to buy food, and what little food the group had was carefully saved.

It really made Alfred wish he could take all of them back to his house right on the spot. The colonies had LOADS of food! Even if you didn't have money to buy food in a town, the woods were full of edible plants and delicious animals to cook up and eat! Or you could go catch a fish and eat that if you wanted! Alfred, who had almost never missed a meal a day in his life before this, honestly couldn't understand why Juan and the others were able to play and smile without a single mouthful of food in them.

Right now, the game the littler kids wanted to play was 'Listen to Alfred's Tummy Making Funny Sounds', and even sticking his tongue out and making faces at them weren't enough to dissuade them. If Alfred's best methods weren't enough, there was only one other thing he could do: wait and hope his audience eventually got bored with this game. Now if only he could make his stomach rumble like that on cue -

Outside the wrecked house, there was a sudden thunderous clatter that made everyone jump. It sounded like someone had smashed open a barrel or something. One of the other older kids - Alfred couldn't keep their names straight either, but he was pretty sure the really dark-skinned one was named 'Tonio - went outside to see what it was.

And almost immediately ran back inside. He tried to yell something but whatever the word was, it was swiftly smothered in the thundering crack of gunfire. Huge chunks of the front wall exploded into splinters! 'Tonio crumpled to the ground right in the doorway, while the little kids, totally unprepared for this kind of thing, screamed. If Alfred hadn't been frozen in place in shock he would have screamed too.

"RUN!"

Who shouted that? Alfred didn't know, but when a hand suddenly grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the door, his whole body jolted back to life and he immediately turned to follow. The one holding on to Alfred was Juan.

All the other kids were climbing out the big hole in the back of the wrecked house. The other bigger kid - wait, wasn't that 'Tonio? That meant the boy in the doorway was Bill! - had already climbed out first and was helping the others through. As soon as they were over there Juan practically shoved Alfred through the hole headfirst. Barely was Alfred back on his feet in what turned out to be an almost tiny space between the wrecked house and the next one over when several of the very angry-looking types that had been chasing Juan stormed in through the door, pistols at the ready.

The second the pirates saw their targets escaping, they opened fire on the back wall. Luckily for Alfred, they couldn't see their targets and while he got another shock watching bullets ripping through half-rotten wood up close and personal, none of those bullets actually hit Alfred.

"Little rats've run off!" one of the pirates shouted.

"We'll get 'em," another pirate growled back, "An' then they'll wish they'd been drowned at birth!"

Alfred was about to do the very sensible thing of running - all the other kids had fled already, including 'Tonio - when he heard a new voice shouting.

"Lemme go!"

Juan hadn't made it through the hole at all! And worse, through the big holes left by all those bullets Alfred could see one of the pirates had his new friend by the neck!

"This lil' rat didn't scurry fast enough!" the pirate jeered.

"Let him go!"

[/color]

All the pirates turned to look in surprise. To be honest, Alfred was more than a little surprised himself - because before he'd even thought about it, he'd jumped right back in through the hole and was yelling at the pirates!

...We-Well...well so what?! Pirates were cowards and bullies, according to the stories, and Juan was his friend so of course Alfred wouldn't leave him behind! Alfred could be a brave hero too, if he wanted, just like the ones in all his favorite tales!

Though it was hard to remember that when another pirate stomped over and grabbed Alfred by the arm.

"This lil' rat's got some fire in 'im!" the pirate sneered.

He probably would have said more, but he was interrupted - by more gunshots from outside! And from the way all the pirates looked surprised, that probably was a good sign!

...Or not, because more pirates ran inside the wrecked house, making Alfred and Juan's chances of escaping that much worse.[/center]

----
- Sorry for the delay~ Hopefully this makes up for it~

- Oh Alfred, I love you but your naivete hurts me to write. >.<;;

[England]

Competent assistance was as rare as it was expensive. Fortunately, self-interest was plentiful, dependable—and ruthless. Pirates could always be counted on under the right circumstances.

England dug the end of the borrowed musket into the dust and leant on it, watching through narrowed eyes as the pirates wrestled the last breathing brigand through the open doors of El Ancla. (He didn’t need the support, but Edwards had refused point-blank to be shaken off at the Inn and he couldn’t appear the only man not breathing deeply; even in the dregs of his Empire, England wasn’t sloppy enough to forget his role.) The ground hit the man hard in a shower of grit and piled up comrades, the losers of the fight seeping gore slowly down the cobbles towards lower ground. Some of the pirates were already prying the dead open at the jaws, cracking teeth out with pistol butts or discarded rocks. They and one Captain, name withheld, had met considerable resistance which had escalated everything. A jack-knife came out in a dirty flash of metal, cutting through the tendons at the back of the man’s knee and flicking through his boot to get at the ankle. The ungodly howl the man gave out as the tight ligaments split apart started up dogs inside. He was shaken roughly, and hauled up to his feet—or, more to the point, his foot. The other being curled underneath him, knee almost high enough to sob into; sobbing was certainly what he was doing.

“You’ve still got one,” the pirate holding him up growled, “for now. Best not lead us wrong, mate.”

"When this is done, we'd be better off seeing them to the gallows," Edward whispered in an undertone, coming up to his side. In the aftermath he was wiping his sword off on a Spanish – former Spanish – lieutenant's coat. The pirate who'd been wearing it had taken his death considerately through the thigh. “Rather than out of port.”

With a dismissive snort, England glanced towards the pirate captain. The man was busy hauling his men off the carcasses, where they were starting to squabble like crows. ”We asked them to do a job, and as far as I can see they’re doing it,” he muttered, casting off the musket onto the pile. ”We had our terms, and they had theirs. Come along.”

There was a tense exhale beside him, joined by the hiss and slide of steel going back into its scabbard. Arthur didn’t wait to hear any more whispering; considering the way the day had been going, they’d be overheard.

The captive had indeed been slapped violently back to consciousness, after a few brief moments of mercy, and they were setting off again. It had been a good while since England had felt the simplicity of just getting on with it. He’d built everything on this unadulterated feeling of audacity. It was the reason Spain hated him; it was the backhand to France’s intentions. It was the reason he had anything in these waters, and he had no intention of forsaking it. It was thuggish and wholly effective.

Tomorrow, these men would set sail exactly as he’d promised – providing, of course, today led him a step closer to America. A route that was being charted with one foot trailing red and useless in their wake, as they cut through swiftly-emptying backstreets.

~

The building, when it seemed they had reached the right dilapidated cave in, looked two gusts away from ruin; the kind of place that would be a house one year, then a squalor, then something else entirely between his visits. The walls they passed were etched with the knee-high scratch of childhood and imagination – ships and castles and unrealistic hopes, chipped and crooked in the old rotting wood. To England, the pictures twisted tiny fingers around a growing sense of penury and urgency. He shook it off, irritated, recognizing the useless pathos of guilt. And what of it, if these could have been Alfred’s? They weren’t. They were far too well done, and he would never leave him to this, even if he ran away monthly.

The first pirate standing guard had no time to scream when they reached him; the second shrieked like a blasted demon, the signal for outright pandemonium. The opening volley of pistol fire filled the cramped entranceway with covering smoke, and the pirates surged through it with swords drawn. England ducked beneath a collapsed beam, kicking a fallen body out from under his feet. He needed the balance a second later, flicking the flat of his blade up to catch a blind strike levelled savagely out of the gloom. Heaving the man off sent the smoke spilling in his stumbling wake, opening up the room. Beyond him another pirate was struggling to hold a kicking flail of dark limbs over his chest for safety. Both man and boy jerked abruptly, staggering back under the weight of renewed fire. Arthur cut his attacker up through the belly as a yell split the chaos, and another child erupted after the collapsing pair. England jerked his gaze back to them, the pitch going straight through him. He’d know it anywhere.

In the chaos of scimitars and squalor and pistol smoke, America was twisting out of large arms, bedraggled and filthy but unmistakeable. He seemed to be trying to get between the limp boy and the pirate; what he was doing was putting himself between the pirate and his men!

England swore, ducking short of the next swing and reversed the cut of his sword into the pirate beside him—the allied pirate beside him, with the ruddy pistol raised. The shot went wide, splintering a chunk out of the wall, and Arthur had enough time to understand America’s head was still on his shoulders before the pirate was righting himself, bleeding and enraged with betrayal – rather ironic, considering his profession. In the confusion the others were yet to notice – had less been at stake… But it was. The choice wasn’t difficult. England parried, catching an arm around the man’s body and dragging him in for the twist. The glut of blood came out hot over his hand, soaking up his wrist. Arthur dropped him and lunged into the line of fire, irrespective of appearance, searching for the streak of blond in the surge. For the love of…

“Alfred!” he snarled over the clamour.





a.n.

. sorry for moving America a little. I assume he wouldn’t stand idly by, but I’ve left the precise nature of what he did vague. Also, Juan’s fate.

[America]

Date: May, 1701
Kingston, Jamaica

Someone had forgotten to mention how loud battles really were once you got in the middle of one! The area had been fairly quiet before, if you didn't count the clucking of chickens in tiny wire coops and the higher-pitch sounds of mothers clucking at their families in other houses. But now there was so much gunfire thundering around that Alfred could have sworn a genuine thunderstorm had blown in!

Of course, he didn't really have time to care that the building was packed with pirates shooting guns and slashing each other with swords because there was still a meaty hand on his arm and that other pirate wasn't letting go of Juan at all! In fact, Juan was getting picked up and hauled between the pirate holding him and all the other pirates who'd rushed in firing guns...like the pirate was planning on hiding from the bullets behind Alfred's friend!

"Let'm GO!"

[/color]

Adrenaline pumping, Alfred was only barely aware that the pirate holding his own arm was attempting to use him has a human shield too. All he could tell was that the pirate wasn't letting him get to Juan and when the man finally hauled Alfred off the ground the colony kicked out like a mule on instinct. If Alfred hadn't been more than a bit distracted, the sickening crunch of the man's kneecap abruptly bending an entirely different way than nature intended would have shocked and horrified him. As it was, it got the pirate to let go of Alfred and that was all he cared to pay attention to.

Both Juan and the pirate that had grabbed him were on the floor now, but as Alfred tugged his friend free with shaky hands he was relieved that Juan seemed to be okay. ...Maybe a little shaken up, because he was staring at Alfred like he had no idea what was going on, but Juan wasn't dying or anything bad like that so it was good enough for Alfred!

"C'mon!"[/color] Alfred hissed.

Somehow the whole place had gotten full of clouds of smoke and dust. It was hard to see things in all the murk, but that wouldn't keep a pirate from shooting them if Alfred and Juan stayed out in the open, Alfred figured. Juan was still moving kind of stiffly, but Alfred somehow got the two of them behind what was left of a partition between rooms.

"...Where..."

"Juan!" Alfred exclaimed, glad to see that his friend was regaining his wits, "Are you okay?"[/color]

Juan rubbed the side of his head, where a large and nasty bruise was forming, and winced. But the wince was immediately followed by a nod.

"Just a bump, I'm okay," Juan reassured him.

Alfred nodded. The adrenaline rush was starting to fade now that they weren't in danger of being accidentally shot by pirates, but somehow it seemed like a really bad idea to stay in the wrecked house Juan and his friends had once called home for much longer!

"Good, then we have to -"[/color]

“Alfred!”[/b][/color]

" - find a way out of...here?"[/color]

He'd almost missed it over all the noise, but that had sounded like...actually, it sounded exactly like...which probably meant it was -

"Arthur?!"[/color]

Alfred couldn't help his automatic response - his head popped out from behind the partition, turning this way and that as he eagerly searched for the source of that voice. He even thought he caught a glimpse of something dressed in red not too far away before he was hauled back down behind the partition with a yelp.

"Gonna get shot doing that!" Juan hissed at Alfred as he shoved him back down into safety.

Sure enough, some of the pirates must have decided that Alfred's voice was a great target, because the walls around them were suddenly riddled with large bullet holes. Even so, Alfred squirmed in Juan's grip.

"But I heard him! I know I did!"[/color] Alfred protested - though more quietly than he'd been shouting England's name before, since he didn't want to get shot at any more today.

Alfred had never actually been shot before, but from the looks of it the experience would probably hurt. A lot. Best not to learn how it felt firsthand anytime soon. Juan seemed to have the same thoughts in mind, because his expression...well, Alfred wasn't sure what it was exactly but it looked like of like Juan was thinking about something he didn't really want to happen too.

"We'll find him later," was what Juan said, though, "C'mon! We can sneak to the hole in the back and get out!"

Very reluctantly, Alfred let Juan pull him by the wrist. They had to stay close to the floor and move really slowly, but Juan seemed pretty determined to get himself and Alfred to a safe place as soon as he could. Even if every fiber of Alfred's being was protesting being taken further away from where England possibly was with every step he took.

'Maybe that wasn't Arthur after all,'[/color] Alfred tried telling himself, 'I mean, he's got to still be in London, right? There's no way he'd be here right now!'[/color]

It didn't help the feeling much.[/center]

-----
- Oh Alfred, you so silly to write~

- Juan didn't make a good human shield after all, and when the pirate dropped him he hit the floor head-first. He might even have a mild concussion.

- I apologize for getting this up no less than 32 and a half hours after your post. Because even I'm intimidated by that. ^^;;

[England]

Thin air was neither a metaphor nor an impossibility. England knew of several things that could come from it, and more still that could disappear into it. And of them all, nightmarish and benign alike, success was the most damnable and frequent. The body count had risen sharply, until there was nothing else to stop them – or the part of them that comprised of him – from tearing the room apart. They had found some of the missing property; they had found the hole, for what good it did. Which was to say, bugger all. It was disturbed with the trample of small feet and the smudge of grasping hands a good bit bigger. The boys had been chased through it, without a shadow of doubt. The only question was under what circumstances America had been among them. Arthur had no comfort in doubt. He had seen Alfred; he’d heard him. He might have been old, as the boy so charmingly put it, but he wasn’t losing his hearing quite yet.

“Nothing,” Edwards agreed, winded, crouching down to push his shoulder through the gap and peer up. A pointless exercise: they were long gone. A fool could tell they were long gone.

England was thinking swiftly through draconian and ridiculous measures, one after the other, some more so one than the other. Setting the start of his bastardly army to snatching up anything below the age of ten from the streets would cause mass-panic. It might even provoke organised resistance (though why people should care, when children were so much hard work, he really didn’t know). He was frankly close to considering it. He was also, he realised in disgust, shaking faintly; England pulled his fist away from his mouth, ceasing sharply to pace. He was annoyed, that was all it was. As soon as he realised he was at it, his hand was perfectly steady once more. America had never done anything but run to him – and now, when it mattered, what the devil did he think he was playing at? Being mobbed by the child the second he was through the door was embarrassing, in a charming, grubby-handed sort of way, but now it mattered. And while a dark and nasty thought suggested all things changed (he had, hadn’t he?) England’s only conclusion was that he could not. Being in Jamaica was almost advantageous, after all. There’d be no civilised legal recourse when he finally got hold of those responsible.

Ignoring the industry around him (they were carrying their own men out, including the one England had cut down (he refused to consider the matter murder; there was no murder of a pre-convicted man) Arthur headed for the door. He was almost through it before a hard, powder-burnt hand caught him, sudden and rough at the arm. It left smears on the crisp linen, and England looked at it in cold disbelief.

“We had a bargain,” the Captain said, low. He had a cloth wrapped dirty around a bleeding wrist, and a guarded look of suspicion. England slapped his hand off, sharply. He’d break it if the fool put it back.

“We do,” Arthur snapped, with the crass bitterness of London smog and coal-smudged docks. He wasn’t talking to a gentleman, so there was little reason to talk like one. “But I haven’t magically absorbed the information you need, or pulled it out of my arse. After I’ve spoken to the Governor, we’ll send someone to find you. Now for God’s sake go back to looting the dead.”

He was going that way anyway, or he shouldn’t have bothered. They’d been useless after all.


~


A clock was ticking on the mantel. Despite the heat, the windows had been drawn closed and the shutters locked down over them in expectation -- of a storm of two natures, clearly. The sky outside was turning faintly yellow, and England had had to shove his way through a gaggle of petty officers just to make the door. The Governor was standing with his cane reversed, tucked up smartly beneath one arm. By request the South Sea Company had opened their office and drawing room to him, they being a good deal closer to the harbour than the Governor’s residence. The office was where England found him, still wearing outdoor gloves as he sifted through the merchant dispatches – many new and urgently arrived, and all out to plead the necessity of their business. The smudge of ink was beginning to build on the fingertips of the kidskin, and the heavy scent of tobacco and harassed bureaucrats hung in the air. He was alone except for Jamaica, inset into a chair by the empty fireplace with his dirty feet dangling.

England came to him without jacket, patience or washed hands – though it wasn’t satisfying to see, by a disgruntled glance, that Sir Beefton hadn’t expected any better.

“I’ve had it out of him,” was the first thing the Governor said. It was plain to see that he had, too. The boy was keeping his back conspicuously straight, nothing at all like his normal habit; keeping the striped skin off the rough wicker. He was dry-eyed and had most likely deserved it, but the set of his mouth was still more, at this precise moment, than Arthur could take. At an irritated jerk of England’s hand Jamaica looked wary, and then torn, then with a fleeting glance slipped down and disappeared behind him. If he sensed a fight in the making, it was an accurate appreciation of the atmosphere. Ignoring the indignity tightening the other man’s mouth, England appropriated a glass and a decanter off the Jacobean desk and narrowly resisted using them as weapons.

“And? I need men, not condolences.”

“Look, you’ve got them all. And it’s only a matter of time, as I’m sure you’re aware, before some of the larger ships make a run for it together!” A particular packet was dropped with a thump beside the glass England was filling. “If it was just a blockade it would be bad enough, but the monsoons are coming on. Half these crews are cutting it fine as it is. The Expedition won’t be able to hold the harbour indefinitely.”

“If Jamaica communicated the situation accurately,” England replied, with a morbid calm that only came with sending your own people to their death, hundreds upon hundreds, for centuries, “it must be quite obvious their lives are expendable. In this case, all of them.”

It was a perfectly predictable response, to which the Governor looked predictably aghast.

“Untenable. Our reputation is not at all expendable. Think of the good of the Empire!”

“I consider myself thought of,” England retorted, acerbically, which at least brought an end to that. The glass went back in one, but the short pause wasn’t nearly short enough.

“I’ve let you turn my charge into pandemonium,” the Governor bit out, in the opportunity, dropping the end of the cane to the ground with a sharp crack. “Two senior officers hurt; pirates cut loose. I’m doing the best I can for you, but anarchy can’t be tolerated. I didn’t bring the boy to carry my hat. Can’t you use him? It’s his ruddy island. The port must reopen!”

It’s my island, Arthur thought, savagely, but held his tongue. They’d arrived at it faster than he’d been able to bring the conversation to it.

“If the port opens, the town closes.”

It took a few seconds for that to sink in. It was perfectly obvious when it did.

“Martial law? In Kingston?”

It was only a means to another end, which Arthur was safe in the knowledge of, but telling the Governor about that was out of the question.


~


Outside the clouds were gathering hot and tight with the taste of rain. The sun yet beat down, of course – the wretched thing never stopped – but things were beginning to tumble and dance along the streets in gusts.

England had waited behind the corner of an overbuilt cartographers, only minutes away from the South Sea Company’s office, where he wouldn’t get wet while patiently waiting to be assaulted. There was no need for the fellow to follow him farther, getting into his business and seeing things he shouldn’t. Arthur’s reasons for introducing the man to the rough stonework were strictly personal, however. It brought him satisfaction to do it, and feel the very human bone bend. He’d said plainly that he would send someone.

“—at precisely one hour to dawn,” he finished, ignoring the struggling, “you’ll cross the Expedition’s bow – not her stern – with your lanterns blue, fore and aft. I trust that’s not too difficult. Our agreement ends the second you reach open sea.”

It was barely an after-thought, itself; Arthur had no idea the trouble it was going to cause him. Releasing the pirate with a propelling shove, and the courtesy not to watch where he went, England glanced back up the alley behind him to where a cat was still chasing fluttering rubbish. Jamaica, however, was no longer watching it. With a scowl, England called him. His own voice, and the echoing silence that followed it, was an utterly wretched repetition.


~


Slowing, Jamaica looked back over his shoulder. He kicked water out from between his toes, and wound his hands into his pockets. The first drops of rain felt good on his face, but they stung down his back. They wriggled under the collar, and stung. No yeyewata. Not for them. Jamaica kept walking. Bare feet were better – shoes only got dirty to make the English happy (they were happy when they were mad). And then they made the noise, so they could find him when they were mad.

The English didn’t like to smile or laugh. They didn’t love him because Jamaica laughed. All his people laughed. He could still hear England calling after him, and didn’t laugh. England was a samfi and a liar. But Jamaica didn’t mind when he lied. When he used to lie, and no-one did right, he didn’t have to live with a governor. Jamaica preferred pirates. Pirates were fair, and had gold and went where they thought good. They slept when they liked and didn’t have to wear shoes if they didn’t like. If someone escaped, they should escape with pirates. And now Jamaica knew how and when.

The higgla were closing up, putting their goods away. No-one was happy; they didn’t want so much scare. Already he felt all hushed up with chatter underneath, in his belly. But no-one had to get hurt. Finding a pickney wouldn’t be so hard! He didn’t know what was so important, but when he was gone, Jamaica could get England to give him a new Governor. He’d hate this one too.







a.n.


. yeyewata. Tears, tearing, to cry.

. samfi. A conman, or a disreputable person.

. higgla. Vendors or merchants.

. pickney. A child, children.

[America]

To Be Continued...HERE~