A/N: Hello all. This is my first story, so please be gentle with the reviews. I know that it won't seem much like a romance type of thing now, but this is just to get you accustomed to the setting and so on.

Despite Samdum's advice, I'm going to compromise and set the story on the outskirts of Port Royal, rather than downtown or way over in Tortuga. Now, off we go!

P.S. a minion is a 4-pound cannon - i.e., it fires a 4-pound ball


The wind swept gently through the vast forest of canvas overhead, the innumerable square sails snapping in time with the lap of water against the ship's sides. A sailor straightened from the work he had been doing with some tackle, arching his back to stretch the tired, dully-aching muscles of a hard day's work. He smiled to himself, raising his arms as if to touch the sky, orange with the lateness of the day. It was so beautiful here. . .

"Charles," called the boatswain.

The man dropped his arms, lacing his hands behind his head as he turned to look to the bridge, where the man stood. "Aye, sir,"

The boatswain shook his head, smiling as he rested his elbows on the bridge's railing. "You work like a dog all day and still manage to remain courteous," he marveled.

The sailor, Charles, grinned back. "All in the name of King and country, sir,"

The officer laughed. He jerked his head in the general direction of town. "Go home, son. All but the quartermaster and the old sea dogs have buggered off - you may as well do the same."

He saw the young man looking around at the mess that remained on deck: rope lay strewn in half-coils about the planks, an overturned bucket and mop that had been abandoned earlier in the day watched him reproachfully from beside one of the minions, and the tackle he had been since before that moment untangling was only half-finished.

The boatswain chuckled. "Never you mind, the Steadfast can take care of herself, that much I know. Get on home, boy, you've worked hard enough. Besides," he winked. "young fellow like you, probably have a sweetheart waiting, eh?"

Charles laughed uncomfortably, but if the boatswain noticed, he gave no sign. "Believe me, sir," he said, "there's nowhere else in the world I'd rather be than here."


The young sailor stayed perhaps half an hour more on the ship before the boatswain demanded that he go home. Now, walking leisurely down the cobbled streets of Port Royal, all he could think about was the tackle he had left tangled up on deck. . .

He sighed. It wasn't worth worrying about. It would get done at some point.

His stomach churned as he neared the pub - it didn't have a name, because technically it didn't exist - that jutted out of one of the side-street's walls like a sore. Eyes down, keep walking, don't be afraid. . .

" 'ello, lovey," a woman's voice sounded from the doorway. "How're yeh?"

"Fine, thank you," he murmured.

"Aw, he's shy," another purred. "Don't be scared, ducky, we ain't all so frightenin' as ol' Pat here. Come on in, buy you a drink?"

His step quickened. "No, thank you. Good evening, ladies."

Nasal giggling followed him out of the street, and upon stepping onto the main road he felt as if he'd just left a smoke-filled room for a well-aired one. He heaved a weighty sigh. He really must find another way home. . .

Another few minutes of walking brought him to the back entrance of a grand estate. The wrought-iron gate stood eight feet tall, black and foreboding. He hated this gate. Someday, when the marble steps and double-paned windows and tall, white walls were his, he would tear it down. But that was a long, long way off.

Quietly he stole into the back yard, where the grass was nearly black with the lateness of the hour. What time is it? he wondered, not really caring. It was after dark, so he didn't really have much to worry about. James, perhaps, if he had decided to take a midnight skulk, but he was no threat. If worse came to worse, he could always claim he was a pageboy.

The servant's quarters, a small protrusion from the main floor that jutted slightly out into the lawn, would be unlocked, he knew, and let himself in when he found that it was so. He slipped through the door, keeping it as far closed as possible to prevent it from squealing. Not a one of the servants looked up as he entered; they knew who it was.

Pushing the door shut with a gentle click, the young man sighed heavily, leaning his forehead against it.

"Bela," he called pitifully, finally, mercifully allowing his voice to resume its normal, slightly higher pitch.

"Yes, I'm coming," The sweet Jamaican voice responded, sounding tired itself.

Bela came to his side, pulling the worn leather vest from about his shoulders. "Oh, God, thank you," the new voice breathed, rotating the aching shoulders.

Bela sighed. "I know you do not like when I say," she began, a hint of reproval in her voice. "but I think what you are doing is a very, very bad idea, Charity."

A lighter, softer sigh than before came from the girl. "I know," she said quietly. "Don't think that I don't, Bela. If he found out, he'd disown me."

Bela took Charity by one of her shoulders, looking sternly into her face. "There be more important things than what your father be doin', Charity," she said, becoming upset. "If you get caught, you will hang, child, do you understand? Don't -"

Bela forced herself to breathe deeply, and she said, a bit more calmly, "Don't make me lose another friend. All right?"

Charity nodded seriously. "I promise you, Bela, I won't be caught." She smiled. "And if I am, I'll just have to make a daring escape, then, won't I?"

The woman looked skeptical. "Yeah, a daring escape," she repeated, a little cynically, Charity thought. She heard, as Bela turned away to return to her work, "Let's see how daring you be when you're locked in a jail cell,"

Yep, definitely cynicism.

Charity sighed, heading for the door that would lead her into the rest of the house. "Father's sleeping?" she asked over her shoulder.

Bela nodded, brows knitted in disapproval. "He had himself nearly a whole cask of whiskey tonight 'fore he keeled over,"

Charity laughed mirthlessly, letting herself through the door.

She made her way up the back staircase with practiced ease despite the oppressive darkness. Mindful of the bits of the floor that creaked, she managed the trek through the upstairs hall and to her room without incident.

Silent as a thief she went about the task of raiding her own bureau in search of a nightgown. Finding one, she laid it on the expansive, canopied bed and began to undress. Upon removal of her shirt she sighed inwardly, bracing herself. The heavy cloth wrapped tightly about her torso never came off happily.

Delicately she pinched the outermost layer, pulling it out the few millimeters it would go before attempting to undo the miniscule yet incredibly intricate knot hidden deep within the layers of cloth. Perhaps a minute of intense concentration rendered her free of the thing. She moaned, half in pain, half with relief, as breathing suddenly became much easier and she let the wretched, yet marvelous, thing slip from her hands and onto the floor. She stretched her arms above her head gleefully in her freedom.

Yet with a downward glance this illusion was shattered. Breasts were the stigma of bondage, the eternal mark of womanhood and, thereby, restriction. That was what made the ache she endured night after night wonderful.

Hugging herself, Charity padded over to the bed, looking hatefully down at the nightgown before her. Another piece of her life that refused to go away.

She sighed, her gaze softening as she held the soft, cotton nightdress in her hands. But we cannot help what we are, she mused.

We can only defy it.


A/N: Whee! One down, several to go! I'll post as soon as possible.