But truthfully, his muscles were sore, a low headache that had seemingly been present for years pulsated, and of course the gash on his leg was impossible to ignore. The thought of being up top with all the men and their incessant noise was off-putting in the extreme. He still made a show of his displeasure, and Pickering resolutely ignored him before taking his leave.
He’d barely gone when there was a knock, and a young voice called out, “Rations.”
“Wait,” Hawk answered, shoving himself off the bed with a wince.
Plum piped up from the corner. “But the surgeon just said—”
“Shut up.” Hobbling slightly, Hawk stood behind his desk. Sitting would probably be worse, so he opened his log and leaned heavily over it, hands on the scarred wood. He called, “Enter.”
Their newest crew member, the redheaded Tully from the merchant ship, came in with fresh water and a bowl of salted meat and peas. He glanced around as if looking for something. All the blood had of course been cleaned.
His eyes narrowed at Plum, who wore one of Hawk’s old shirts, too big on him by half, the sleeves rolled up and the collar loose almost to mid-chest, a scattering of light hair peeking out of the white linen. Plum’s shirt had been ruined by blood, but his breeches only had a few stains that were invisible under the tails of the shirt.
Tully nodded toward Plum. “Got ’is food. Not sure why we’s wastin’ it.”
Hawk gazed unseeingly at the log, fingers tightening on the desk. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”
“Well, here you go, Bainbridge, you bloody loiter-sack.” Tully carelessly dropped the cup and bowl on the floor near Plum with a clatter. “Wonder how your bitch of a sister is. I was always real nice to her, and she never gave me the time of day. Stuck-up cunt. I hope your father don’t pay and we get the chance to really stick it up her.”
Plum was instantly on his feet, fists clenched. “Don’t you dare even speak about my sister. No one’s going to lay a finger on her while I still have breath.”
“I’m sure it can be arranged that you don’t no more.”
Hawk banged the log shut and stood straight, ignoring the fiery throb in his leg. “Mr. Tully.” He eyed him. Mangy red hair, freckles, yellowed teeth with at least one missing, skinny and hard, a feral little man with a beady gaze. “I’m not sure what you hope to gain with this display, but if it’s to impress me, you’ve missed the mark. Leave, and tell Mr. Snell you are no longer permitted in my cabin.”
After opening his mouth as if to argue, Tully apparently thought better of it and scuttled out. Plum took a few steps, as if he wanted to give chase. “I can protect myself against him.”
Hawk snorted. “Good. That wasn’t about you. Mr. Tully needs to learn to obey my orders.”
He managed to make it back to the bed with even steps, swallowing a groan as he stretched out again, his boots undoubtedly sullying the linens. It was a luxury to have a true bed and not a hammock, to have soft sheets.
He should enjoy his rest, since it didn’t come often, yet he found himself thinking too much of his prisoner. “Now eat, and if you say you’re not hungry I’ll shove that food down your gullet myself.”
After a minute of silence, Plum said, “You should eat too. Or at least drink.” He scratched at his face. There was little more than peach fuzz there, but he clearly wasn’t used to it.
Hawk had a jug of water by the bed, and he sipped from a cup. “There. See how amenable I can be?”
It was Plum’s turn to snort, and Hawk had to stop himself from smiling. Why on earth was he smiling at Walter fucking Bainbridge’s son? The blood loss must have been severe indeed. He stretched back on his bed.
“How old were you when you first killed a man?”
Hawk blinked at the unexpected question. Plum poked at his food and added, “I’m just wondering who was the first?”
John. The answer came unbidden. Hawk hadn’t fired the cannon, true, but he could still feel the grip of John’s hands as they shoved him to safety. Could still taste the spray of John’s blood. Shaking his head to banish the past, he said, “Fifteen.”
“Oh. Was it awful?”
He simply answered, “Yes,” before he could craft a more appropriate response. As a pirate captain, he should have laughed cruelly and proclaimed that he loved every moment of bloodshed.
Truthfully, he’d done what he must over the years, but he never enjoyed it. Constantly striving and hunting, his power over the men tenuous, watching over his shoulder with one hand on his cutlass, any control over the sea merely an illusion as well. Oh, for a life where he could just be.