I.

On life's vast ocean diversely we sail,
Reason the card, but passion is the gale

Alexander Pope, An Epistle on Man


The beach at Nassau was quiet in the hour before dawn. Billy, grunting as he turned over on his side, awoke to the soothing sound of waves lapping against the pure white sand. For a moment, he was disoriented by the sensation of solid ground beneath his body. Over the past four years, the incessant rocking of a ship had been the one constant feature of his daily life. He had rarely slept on dry land since he had been wrenched from his family at the age of seventeen,and had long dreamed of a night spent sleeping rough on one of he inviting beaches of New Providence Island. Now, however, he flexed his aching back, regretting that he had no spent the night in the familiar confines of his salt-stained hammock. Would it have been any different if he had slept in a bed?

A proper bed. Would I even feel comfortable in one anymore?

He sighed, then sat up, running a hand over his closely cropped hair. Stretching out his long legs, he stared out at the ocean. The palest blush of dawn was visible at the edge of the horizon. The sea glinted in the light of the retreating moon, hints of silver dancing across the waves. He rarely had a time to savor the peace of the early morning hours, and was struck again by how breathtakingly beautiful the Caribbean could be.

And how very far away it was from the life he had been meant to lead.

Before he had been taken by the press gang, a clear path in life had stretched out before him, devoid of any major question marks. His father ran a small print shop specializing in prayer books, with a large side business in broadsides with a political bent. As the eldest son, Billy would take over the shop as he grew into adulthood, and marry a pretty girl from a good, God-fearing family. Their rosy-cheeked children would be raised in the same set of rooms over the shop where he and his siblings had spent their formative years.

What if…

What if he had never taken those leaflets to the docks that evening?

What if he had not fought the men that had stopped him, but had simply fled?

Before he had gone down to the docks that night, he had ducked into the kitchen to give his mother a quick hug.

The delicious smell wafting from the pot simmering over the fire had made his stomach rumble. His mother, catching his longing glance, had given him a smile.

"Chicken stew, your favorite. Don't be late."

"I won't!" he had called, giving her a cheeky grin as he swiped a biscuit from the table.

"Billy Manderley, you'll be the death of me yet!" She had put her hands on her hips, a fond look on her face. "Off with you, now!"

What if...

Those words had the tendency to float through his brain whenever he had a rare moment of peace. He closed his eyes, willing the images of his former life to retreat from his mind. Ever since he had joined Captain Flint's crew, time for introspection had been few and far between. In fact, he had come to welcome the mind-numbing hours of back-breaking toil on the Walrus. At least when he collapsed into his hammock at night, his body was too exhausted to do anything but succumb to sleep. And the next morning, he was clear-eyed and ready for duty.

Not like those stupid fucks who decided to spend last night at the brothel.

He had been incredulous when Flint had granted the men a night of shore leave.

"Are you insane? These men have been have been penned up on this ship for four weeks, most of it in shit weather. The rigging has taken a beating, and we have less than forty-eight hours to make all the necessary repairs. If you give the crew liberty, ten to one that less than twenty percent make it back by the appointed hour."

"You're probably right," replied the Captain calmly, leaning back in his chair.

Billy crossed his arms across his chest, giving him a dark look. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Any man who doesn't make it back in a timely fashion will be disciplined. Eight lashes at the mast-as well as being banned from shore leave for the next two port calls. Those who report for duty on time will have their leave doubled next time we return to Nassau." He glanced up at the boatswain, his blue eyes cold. "The battle lines have been drawn, Billy. I need to remind every man on this ship that I can make his life hell if he chooses to defy my orders."

"And just how do you propose to make sure this happens?" the boatswain snapped. "I don't expect you'll be back from Mrs. Barlow's before we're up in the rigging at daybreak." The moment the words were out of his mouth, Billy regretted them. Flint rose from his chair, the veins in his neck bulging in fury.

"I propose that you get your head in the right place, and do your fucking job," he snarled. "Spend the night off this damn ship for once. Have a drink, find a woman, pick a fight-do whatever the hell you need to do to defuse some of the anger that's been fueling you for the past month. Because God knows my temper is short right about now."

Billy gave him a hard stare, then nodded curtly. "Understood."

He had elected to spend the night on the beach, seeking the solitude that he often craved after living in close quarters with a throng of unwashed men day after day-some of them trustworthy and dependable, others shifty and conniving on their best days. As he stood up and pulled his boots back on, the wind shifted subtly. Dark clouds covered the fading moon, bearing the promise of rain.

Shit. Nothing better than starting off a punishing day of labor in a tropical storm.

He headed up the sand, and decided to take a direct path back to the docks. It meant passing through an area of Nassau that he made a habit of avoiding- the small enclave inhabited by respectable people. There was a white clapboard Anglican church, a tight circle of well-kept, modest homes, and a smattering of shops. Billy had seen the quarter once from a distance, and had regretted ever setting eyes on it.

His gut had twisted painfully when he had seen the tidy flowerbeds outside the small cottages. The colorful blooms had reminded him of England-as had the laughing children playing tag. Billy had always had a gift for relating to children, although it was increasingly hard for him to recall that once upon a time, he had been a gangling, tow-headed boy who had loved nothing more than exploring the docks with his dog at his heels.

Now, however, the streets were deserted. A light drizzle began to fall, and the wind picked up. The palm trees swayed in the wind, rustling above the cobblestone streets. A corpulent man in the dark suit of a Anglican clergyman crossed the street in front of him, glancing at the young man nervously as he eyed the pistol secured at his waist.

Billy met his gaze, but kept his hands relaxed at his side. It began to rain in earnest then, and the priest darted across a small park, eager to put distance between himself and the bronzed young pirate.

We're all the same to him. Me, de Groot, Vane, Flint...he sees us all as men who are destined for hell. Funny part is, I've already been living in hell for the past five years.

Thunder boomed in the distance, and lighting flashed over the still slumbering settlement. Billy sighted an awning down a side street, and took refuge under it for a moment, wiping the rain from his face. As he leaned against the peeling wooden door, the aroma of freshly baked bread drifted from the small shop next door. For a man accustomed to eating hardtack for weeks at a time, the smell was almost intoxicating. Billy's mouth began to water, but then he remembered where he was, and dismissed any thought of going into the bakery.

Those places aren't for the likes of us.

He had turned to go when his nose detected a scent that froze him in his tracks-the sweet notes of cinnamon, currants, and sugar, blended together in an olfactory symphony that brought him back to his childhood in an instant.

Chelsea buns.

They were one of the few store-bought treats he had been allowed on special days-days like his birthday...which was now a day like any other day. He remembered the anticipation that had come with being given a halfpenny to spend at Davies' Bakehouse. The wind picked up, flinging sheets of rain against the buildings. Billy stepped back against the wall, regarding the sky with a practiced eye. There would be another at least another ten to fifteen minutes of nasty weather before the squall let up any of its intensity.

A small barrel skittered past him, gusts of wind driving it down the center of the street. An instant later, a shutter flew open on the front of the bakery, banging against the wall. A slender young woman fought to open the door against the force of the forty mile an hour winds, and finally succeeded in budging it open a bit. She peered out, held her breath for a moment, then dashed to the shutter.

Just as she grasped it, the wind tore it from her hands. As the piece of wood connected with her head, she stumbled backwards, and fell. Billy leaped forward, and managed to catch her just before she hit the ground.

"Are you alright, miss?" he asked, shouting in order to be heard over the downpour.

Her dark hair was plastered across her face, and she appeared to still be dazed. She shook her head, then nodded, and swayed in his arms.

"I'll take that as a no." He slipped an arm under her knees, and lifted her easily into his arms, cradling her against his broad chest.

Shoving the door open with his foot, he backed into it, pushing his way into the shop. The door slammed shut behind him, and the maelstrom of the storm receded into a dull roar.

He set his burden down gently on the low bench in front of the counter, and knelt in front of her. "You're bleeding," he murmured, his fingers tracing the outlines of a nasty gash at the edge of her hairline. "May I take a look?"

She swallowed, then reluctantly nodded her assent. "I don't believe it's too bad."

He looked up for an instant to catch her grimacing, the pain etched on her face belying her words.

"I might have been injured far worse if you hadn't happened along. I cannot thank you enough. Such kindness is rarely seen in Nassau."

"I like to believe that charity covers a multitude of sins," he replied, keeping his voice light as he tore off a piece of his shirt and held pressure on her cut.

She stilled under his touch, her breathing quickening. "I once knew someone who was fond of that saying. He lived around the corner from me in Kensington. Then one day he vanished...it was as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth."

He felt his heart stop in his chest, and he swallowed. Ever so slowly, he lifted his eyes, hardly daring to hope that he would find himself looking into a pair of moss green eyes.

"Meg?"

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she put her hand on his. "Billy? Is it really you?"

In an instant, she was in his arms, crying as if her heart would break.


I just finished binge-watching all three seasons of Black Sails. I very much like the backstory the writers have created for Billy, and decided to play with it a bit. I own nothing except the character of Meg.