A/N: This is either the best or worst idea I've ever had. I'm taking a course in maritime history this semester-don't ask, I needed electives towards my degree-and learned of the role that privately hired British ships worked in terrorizing the Spanish in the colonial Caribbean. It was a desperate grab for territory and treasure, for as long as ships were robbed at sea and not near any significant area of land, it was not considered an aggressive act of war. In 1670, the Treaty of Madrid was signed, conceding much of the islands of the West Indies to England and basically forcing both countries to stop meddling in the affairs of the other. Piracy, organized or not, was severely limited, and trading was limited between their own possessions. As you can imagine, this caused a great deal of unrest for the men that made their living off of the bounties of the sea. King Charles II had returned from exile in 1658 following the English Civil War and was immediately consumed in war with the Dutch. The American and Caribbean colonies were finally beginning to prosper with the introduction of tobacco, indigo, and sugar, so he sent many a nobleman overseas to keep order. This is where our story picks up.
Please know that I have researched what you see here and in the following chapters to the best of my ability, but if you spot a glaring historical error, feel free to point it out so that I will not repeat it. I hope you will excuse the lack of accents and mid-English anachronisms, for historical fiction is hard enough to write without worrying about the linguistics of the characters. Chapters will be between two and three thousand words, and will be a few days between as finals are coming up at my university. This story will contain the holy trinity-that is, Jilliam, Gemily, and MTB. Be warned of military violence and death that will occur in future chapters. I'm known for my fluff around here, but please don't spare my feelings. It is my first full length story for this fandom, after all.
I don't own this show or the characters, only the situations I put them in. The title is nicked from a Lindsey Stirling song that I am quite partial to.
Next time: William meets the notorious cook, and the Arcadia comes upon some old friends.
Master of Tides
Chapter One
Precisely fifteen months to the day that they'd departed from the banks of the River Thames, a young sailor arrived in the country he had formerly called his home. He was no older than eighteen, with a rakish glint in his eye and a close crop of dark hair. This was unusual of a man of his station, for he was sooner to sport canvas breeches and bare feet than a silken cravat, upturned cuffs, and a starched waistcoat. In fact, seeing as he had sported the ridiculous get up since he'd boarded the clipper in San Juan, he felt like he'd sooner faint from all the tight bindings than pass for a respectable gentleman.
A carriage was waiting for him at the docks, which was quite the surprise for a boy from the midland territories who had never ridden such a contraption. As the horses were whipped and the cabin lurched to one side, he seized the handles on the door and held on for dear life.
The royal acolyte chuckled at his guest's naivety and the abject fear he saw in his eyes. From the man's stilted attempts to mimic a Londoner's accent and the ripe smell that was rising off his body, it was apparent that His Majesty's newest informant hadn't earned his position as of yet.
As their ride continued down the cobbled streets of the north end, the escort informed him that he was to have an audience with the patron of the man he'd been charged to bring to the new world. He was a very important person, a man of the people, who didn't suffer foolishness lightly, did he understand?
So he was to have an audience with the King himself. How proud his late mother would be to see her son now!
Eventually the driver slowed his rig to a halt and the sailor found himself before the tremendous heights of Whitehall Palace. The central tower boasted a facade of white limestone and steps the length of the largest ship in all of the Royal Navy. Surrounding buildings were placed haphazardly around it as if some playful giant had seized them by their sapphire roofs and tossed them about like a handful of dice. A crystal clear canal cut the compound by its width, chaperoned on either side by mighty oak trees. Each window and silver fixture had been polished to a nearly impossible shine, while the ladies and gentlemen ducking between the structures upon paved walkways were so flawless in their appearances that the boy could have mistaken them for porcelain dolls. It was simultaneously the most gaudy and most impressive thing that he had ever seen.
To his surprise, both himself and his companion were searched multiple times before they were allowed to enter. Apparently there were multiple throne rooms to thwart the murderous overtures of any remaining followers of Cromwell.
"Even a decade after the traitor's death, his doctrine still attracts fanatics," one of the guards had explained when faced with his shocked expression.
He may have disagreed with the King's policy of fanatic taxation on occasion, but not enough to consider killing the man. As opposed to the rest of his former crew, he'd opted for a more forgiving and less militant approach to his ideological enemies.
Perhaps this was why he'd been chosen out of all the men to return. His former boss had resumed his plundering ways, and many had followed without a second thought. He doubted that he'd be trusted to maintain his charge's position after his report was delivered in person, and that was perfectly alright. Neither guard nor servant paid heed to the velvet purse brimming with gold coins that was tucked into his breast pocket.
At long last, the traveler reached the climax in his nearly six month journey: a heavy set of cypress doors taller than half a dozen men. The two sentinels standing to either side of it leaned forward and with the sum of their strength revealed the throne room.
It should not have surprised the sailor to discover that his king was a real man and not some creature of myth that was only spoken for with wild prognostications among the townspeople. Charles presently sat in repose on his opulent throne, whose inlaid gemstones glinted with light streaming in from the monolithic stained glass windows. The sleeves of his white shirt and the gut of his red overcoat were so voluminous that the boy couldn't wager to say just how significant he was in girth or stature. He wore little finery, save for a golden chain that culminated in a painted cameo of the blessed virgin. A scourge of white ruffles drew most of the attention to his face, which was heavy with the wrinkles and jowls characteristic of any man in his forties. Naturally, his wig was enormously high and piled with curls that would be the pride of any of the Queen's ladies in waiting. As the sailor and his escort drew nearer, they began to attract the attention of several advisers seated to either side of the throne.
One of the men stood and recited his limited credentials from a parchment, his disinterested tone of voice indicating that they had entertained many appointments that morning already and one had yet to bring before them some information of merit. The boy kneeled at the steps of the raised dais, unsure of how to proceed. Was he to kiss the monarch's hand? Dance a jig?
"Your Majesty, I am Henry Higgins of Shropshire and Shrewsbury," he began cautiously, for he had no royal title of which to speak. Perhaps the fact that his county had valiantly served the King during his exile would be of some merit. "I served aboard the royal vessel Arcadia for three years under the command of Captain Thomas Brackenreid, of Yorkshire and Sheffield. I, along with my companions, escorted Sir William Murdoch of the Isle of Wight to Barbados before proceeding up the coast to the Spanish garrison of St. Augustine as requested by royal decree. Along our way we intercepted crucial intelligence that the treaty had secured the ownership of the West Indies for the crown. It is due to the wit and diligence of Sir Murdoch that I am present today to inform Your Royal Highness that the isle known to the Spaniards as Puerto Rico is rife for the taking."
Not bad for a speech he'd only been rehearsing for the past three quarters of a year. He was keenly aware that the King's advisers were rearing to go with questions for him as to how this could be. The boy settled for turning on his heels and stalking out of the throne room, grateful for the finery he'd been loaned and the pleasant passage across the sea. It was more than a person of his stature could have asked for.
Besides, to a man that had the power to take his life, a lie by omission wasn't an entire falsehood.
-0-
William had been aboard for four and a half months, and he had yet to make any friends.
He had arrived at the docks in his home port of Yarmouth at precisely the arranged time to find an empty mooring. At the time, his cargo included two chests of clothing and half a dozen full of scientific texts. Although his housekeeper had advised him to leave some of his personal affects behind, he simply couldn't bear to think that he would arrive at his post without enough stock to furnish a full library.
He was a man of letters; a stout patronage from a local benefactor had seen him through an education at Cambridge. For the past five years, he had pioneered the formation of a primitive constabulary force on the island which had attracted the attention of the crown for its efficacy. His methods centered around the profiling of the characteristics that caused criminals to commit their vices-whether it be desperation, poverty, or godlessness-and targeting these at their source. Although he was not from the island originally, he was respected among its people, and consequently by the royal family. The arrangement he had with the townsfolk was comfortable, so much so that initially he couldn't have imagined abandoning all he'd worked for to bring a state of order to an lawless plantation isle thousands of miles away. But seeing as his livelihood depended on his ability to follow orders from the higher up, Murdoch had come to peace with it.
After an hour of standing in the rain, during which most of his cargo had become thoroughly soaked, he nearly wept with joy to see the Arcadia approach. From stern to prow, it measured one hundred feet, with sails of various sizes too numerous to count. As it approached, William could see that its hull had been mended so frequently that the side of it could be mistaken for a patchwork of every kind of wood in the forest. The sculpted figure of a nude woman adorned the bow, her topless form disappearing below the waterline repeatedly with the ebb of the waves. It didn't matter that she was most likely a depiction of some Greek protector goddess, the sight made William blush a deep crimson that didn't begin to fade until the transport at last docked with the pier.
If they knew of their latest charge or even cared, the men on deck didn't show it. They were a ragtag bunch, all ripped trousers and unkempt facial hair, who kept their heads bowed to their work until something demanded their attention. Suddenly the lot of them stood up straight and saluted towards the aft portion of the ship.
In the meantime, two sailors had jumped from the side of the ship down to the pier. Both were young men of slight stature, with long hair that was tied back with strips of leather and feet unapologetically bare. The seaman standing closest to the water elbowed his companion, his lips splitting in a broad smile. Then the other bowed mockingly, his head snapping forward as if he'd been knocked over.
"Welcome to the Arcadia, Mr. Murdoch. I'm Jib, and this is my bunkmate Runt."
His heavenly father was surely testing his patience now. Ignoring the sting of the informal address, he said, "It's a pleasure, gentlemen. Now, I would like to know your real names."
Momentarily, they were confused, until the same one responded, "I'm Henry Higgins. I man the forward sails."
The other sailor was fairly bouncing on his toes with excitement. It was clear that he'd earned his nickname through his inexperience. "George, George Crabtree. And this lady, the keeper of the seas, is Eurybia," he proclaimed, leaning over to attempt to reach the carving on the prow.
Two things happened simultaneously. The young man lost his balance and tumbled forth into the water, taking an exquisitely carved chest of Murdoch's keepsakes down as well. It was for a fleeting moment that William hoped his belongings would float and retrieval would be easy, but he had no such luck. The crate and its contents quickly sank to the bottom of the bay, just out of reach of the repentant boy.
"I do apologize, Mr. Murdoch," he professed over the sound of his friend's raucous laughter, "It was an honest mistake."
He accepted the hand that was held out to him, using it to clamber back onto the pier. Once righted, the sailor who called himself George shook off the excess water not unlike a dog. William stumbled backwards to avoid being caught in the cross hairs.
Meanwhile, Henry was busy lifting his luggage and tossing it to an unseen colleague above. William was about to warn him to be careful, for his books were exceedingly expensive and he'd already lost enough of his possessions for one day, but just as the chest was about to fall towards the earth, a pair of hands would shoot out and catch it with extraordinary accuracy.
A rope ladder was suddenly thrown over the side, followed by the cautious steps of a man who was swathed in too much finery to have been a normal sailor. His velvet cloak and canvas boots were more extravagant than anything William could ever hope to own. Unlike his crew, he appeared well kept. If it were not for the deep rifts of scars that covered one side of his face and the eye patch, he might have been mistaken for a man of lower nobility. He didn't walk as much as stalk; his confidence and pride seemed to emanate from every direction. So intimidating was his presence that William was considering bowing to him. This train of thought was interrupted by the offering of a handshake.
"Captain Thomas Brackenreid, but if you pick anything up from my men, you'll refer to me as Brax. I suppose you are the man we're to take to Barbados." As he spoke, the two cabin boys scampered away, using footholds on the exterior of the hull to pull themselves aloft.
William was shocked by their catlike dexterity. Thankfully, himself and the captain chose a more dignified method of ascension, taking the rope ladder one at a time. His pointed shoes caused some hindrance, but eventually he managed to pull himself topside with some shreds of dignity remaining.
The deck of the Arcadia was bustling with men preparing for their impending overseas voyage. Every action was practiced and smooth in its execution; just as one man dismounted the topsail, another would scurry right on up. William thought, although he initially suppressed it, that they could rival the efficiency of the Royal Navy.
"Welcome aboard, Sir Murdoch," the Captain was saying, although his back was turned to him. He seemed to be surveying his territory, and deriving a great amount of pleasure from doing so. "Now that initial pleasantries are aside, I must inform you that I intend to keep order at whatever cost. You will sleep and eat alongside my men, for I do not condone special treatment of guests. Our initial route was to come 'round near the horn of Barbuda, up the coast of the mainland Spanish territory, and then back to England. Your presence adds three hundred miles to our journey. This hindrance will not be forgiven, no matter what orders we receive from the King. Keep this in mind if you choose to cause trouble," he finished coarsely, moving off without so much as a farewell.
William remained standing in the same square of deck for quite some time. Had he just been reprimanded for forces beyond his control?
The boy known as George eventually took pity on him, taking a respite from his duties to escort him below decks. "You'll be bunking with Giles, the cook," he explained, ducking in and out of cramped spaces deeper into the bowels of the ship. "He provides meals twice a day, and ale in the evenings. There's a mandatory reading from the good book every Sunday night in the galley. I'll advise you not to be late."
When he was quite sure that the sailor wouldn't be able to hear him, William muttered something about being impressed by honor among pirates. Ahead of him, his guide froze, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.
"You won't find a pirate here, sir," George replied acerbically, "We're privateers. Every single one of us."
And then he turned a corner, leaving William quite lost in the labyrinthine maze that was the belly of the Arcadia.
(to be continued)