Kidnapped by the Pirate

Nathaniel shrugged against Hawk’s knee. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe you re—re—resurrect him.”

“I think that’s enough rum for you.” Hawk laughed. “And no, I’m quite finished with piracy.”

“Not you. Someone else. It’s the name that matters, isn’t it? The repudiation? No. Reputation? I mean, most people don’t know what Hawk actually looks like.”

O’Connell swigged from the bottle of rum. “Aye. Some men in the New World have seen him, but plenty haven’t. Wouldn’t that be something? The Sea Hawk flying again.”

Hawk found himself smiling, and he thought Nathaniel would deem it a real, proper smile. “He escaped from Primrose Isle before its demise. Who can say where he ended up? Who can say what he truly looks like?” He raised an eyebrow at O’Connell. “Perhaps he grew his hair.”

O’Connell blinked. “You mean…” He looked over his shoulder and back again. “Me?”

“The thing that would identify him beyond a doubt would of course be the tattoo across his chest. A sea hawk in flight.” Hawk gently eased out from under Nathaniel’s head so he could shrug off his leather coat. He nodded to O’Connell, holding it out.

O’Connell watched him with wonder, unmistakable excitement lighting his eyes. Hawk swung the coat over O’Connell’s slimmer shoulders. He was a little shorter as well, but still a big enough man. Besides, it didn’t matter. He would do quite nicely as long as he held himself proud and aloof. Powerful.

“Me?” O’Connell asked. “A legendary pirate? Oh, I’m not sure.”

Hawk eyed him critically. “Well, you’ll have to work on your attitude to pull it off. It’s all in the performance. Be confident. Be certain in every single thing. Betray no doubt or fear.”

“Alan, just think of what Hawk would say in a given situation, then sneer and growl. Should do the trick,” Nathaniel said. “I’ve determined that three-quarters of piracy boils down to theater.”

O’Connell’s smile faltered. “I wonder what my Nuala would think if she could see me now.”

Hawk didn’t particularly care who Nuala was and what she might think on any given subject, but Nathaniel gave O’Connell a kind smile. “She’d be smitten all over again. And you know, there’s one more thing Captain Hawk is famous for.”

“Of course, the flag,” Hawk answered. “Reproduced easily enough.”

A sly smile tugged at Nathaniel’s lips. “Yes, that. But also his boots. The golden tips announce his arrival without his having to say a word.”

“I suppose they do.” After a deep breath, Hawk could only smile as he bent and pulled his feet free of the warm, worn leather once and for all, handing them to O’Connell, who took them dubiously.

“Not sure they’ll be a good fit on me. In more ways than one.”

Hawk shrugged. “Then you and Mr. Snell find someone they fit like a glove. The Sea Hawk shall rise again like a phoenix.”

Later, as Nathaniel slept, Hawk went to the desk and purloined the previous captain’s log, smiling at the creak of the battered spine. There were books on a shelf, and he squinted at the titles.

Nathaniel had mentioned his sister had begun reading him Don Quixote, and perhaps Hawk would pick up where she’d left off in the morning.

How he’d missed his books and the sturdy captain’s log, its hefty feel in his hands, as if his life had meaning and worth through its pages. He went through the earlier entries from the former commander of Essa’s Fate, a Captain Rosewater.

The scribblings were nothing of note, but he read through them all dutifully, then left a blank page and dipped the quill. On the next fresh slate of white, he began a list.

First item: New boots.

“So there’s no one left on Primrose Isle?”

“Don’t think so. Perhaps some of the slaves who made a run for it. Navy sent a ship to take anyone else left to Kingston. And that crazy fucker of a governor burned his own house down in a fit of anger. They had to shoot him in the end.”

“Yes, I heard he tried to attack the officers who came to fetch him. Went into a frenzy and had to be put down.”

“Aye, he’s dead.”

Good.

Over his cup of beer, Hawk watched Nathaniel in the murky lantern light. Their table was tucked away in the corner, and Hawk sat with his back to the narrow room and one hand on his new cutlass. Nathaniel kept his eyes intently on the men, who were two tables away with an empty one in between.

“Oy, Smitty!” one of the men called, drawling after what was likely quite a bit of ale or rum, “You was there, wasn’t you? Primrose Isle?”

“Aye,” Smitty answered in a low rumble. “Good riddance to it. Even before the hurricane, it was destroyed by fucking incompetence.”

The serving girl came to take Hawk and Nathaniel’s plates—empty now but for chicken bones—and refill their cups. Hawk took a gulp and wiped his mouth free of any froth, still surprised to find his face clean-shaven. His hair was getting longer, and no one had recognized him. Of course he kept his head down when they ventured out in Port Royal.