A/N: And here we start with where John is actually the age he is in the description and Arthur is busy being a pir-er Gentleman of Fortune. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Chapter 2: The Red Queen
After thanking the farmer who had given him a lift into Portsmouth in the early hours of the morning, John half-fancied that he could handle this new experience of the big city on his own, maybe he would even be able to find the docks for the Royal Navy without asking for directions, surely it was easy enough to find. He was sadly mistaken. With the cresting of the sun over the horizon, the city began to stir and mutter before bursting into full consciousness, proclaiming all manner of goods to be bought and sold in the port's marketplace. Sounds from all over the world echoed around John as smells he had never smelled before saturated his nose. Before he knew it, John found himself amongst the hubbub of the city in the midst of the vendors hawking their wares. At one moment in particular, he was jostled rather gruffly to the side as an eager bird salesman, freshly tanned from voyages in the New World, touted his products, beautifully colored birds of all sizes on large topless crosses, the birds' feet chained to the rod.
Carefully and quickly trying to recompose himself, John resettled his bag only to feel an odd tugging on it. Wiping himself around, he caught a disheveled, filthy little man with his hand unashamedly in the pack, innocent expression on his face. "Hey!" was all John managed before the man bolted away, John's small red purse in his hand. John quickly gave chase.
Pursuing the man through the winding streets of Portsmouth was a difficult job in itself, made all the more difficult as the thief dodged around sellers in the marketplace, and unfortunately, the thief seemed to know the area very well. Over barrels, through back alleyways, around and into various tents and shops, the thief ran and John followed, both gasping for air.
"Help!" John cried. "Stop that man!" he yelled from time to time as he ran, but eventually stopped, deciding to use his breath for running as the chase continued on.
Suddenly up ahead of the running pair, a large wagon blocked the street, the driver, a farmer, trying to calm down his finicky horse as the he brought his Spring produce to market. The thief just managed to get around the slow moving wagon, squeezing through the last available space before the horse began to buck and the wagon to shudder dangerously. John gritted his teeth before sliding underneath the wheels of the wagon, swinging his pack to his front so he could slide more smoothly, emerging quickly on the other side, much to the surprise of the thief.
"Determine' one, en't ya?" asked the thief half-exasperated, half-impish before turning on his heel, taking off again, reconvening the chasing.
John just groaned in frustration before sucking in another breath to continue running, righting his pack as he ran. The thief ran John by a couple vendors from the New World, vibrant fruits on display which the thief promptly knocked to the ground, hoping John would trip over them. Breaths emerging in grunts, John jumped and dodged the rolling fruit, slightly off-balance from his pack, sweat rolling down his face. Angry protests from the vendors echoed behind him as the thief sharply turned a corner, making a right, sliding slightly on the grim of the streets. John made the turn more smoothly, shooting a scowl to the thief as the man glanced over his shoulder to check to see if John was still there.
At this point, the thief seemed about as frustrated as John was as he tipped his head down, digging into some hidden depths that the thief had not ever really had to use before to gain speed to hopefully outstrip the persistent boy, continuing his dodging around and through the marketplace. John added on the speed as well; there was one advantage to growing up in the country, endless supplies of energy.
The thief made his first mistake when he tried to dodge through the tent of a rug seller from the Orient. The air under the tent was smoky with the reek of opium as the thief jumped over a particularly hefty pile of rugs, glancing over his shoulder to check once again on John's progress. Unfortunately the man missed his footing on the landing, tripping into a series of jars, smashing them as he fell. The next thing he knew he was looking into the face of his pursuer, smelling all at once like a fine lady, a stuffy, old gentleman, and tomorrow night's supper.
"At this point," panted John, glaring down at the man sitting amongst the crushed jars of seasoning and perfume, "you have to wonder if it's worth it."
The thief seemed to consider this, fingering the fabric of John's purse before bolting away again. "Oh, come on," moaned John, following the man again, leaving the squawking merchant behind him. At this point, this was getting a little ridiculous, John realized, but that purse held the entirety of the allowance given to him by his family. If he were to lose it now, that would either mean returning home or taking up the position of a beggar himself. John wasn't sure which option was worse.
So John continued to pursue the man. If he had cared to notice the path the thief was following, he would have seen that the man was gradually making his way to the docks. This should have concerned John for the mere fact that once the thief was allowed to get among the nooks and crannies of the Portsmouth harbor, he would have been almost impossible to find. Fortunately, though, John did not end up having to worry about this as the thief made his second mistake.
After dodging around a fisherman hefting the crate of his catch onto a wagon, the thief made another sharp turn, this time to the left, catching himself with his hands on the ground as he propelled himself around the corner under an arch way, before coming to a sharp stop. Not noticing quite in time that the thief had stopped running, John instead plowed into the man and grabbed him on instinct, not letting the man escape again. It was only then that John glanced around the panting thief that he saw what made the man stop.
Before the huffing pair was the auctioneer's block for the Slave Trade. Dark skinned African natives stood huddled to the left, waiting to be plucked from the mass and paraded before the buying crowd. Men from all walks of life stood in the audience, comparing numbers, prices, and descriptions to the slaves before them, raising their hands emotionlessly to place their bids. John, however, suspected that this was not what gave the thief pause as armed British soldiers stood on either side of the stage as well as at each entrance to prevent the chained slaves from even thinking about escaping.
Whatever the reason was, John rested control of his purse from the thief, opening the drawstring one-handed and fingering all the money within. Good, it was all still there.
Glancing up, John quickly looked around and noticed the soldiers beginning to take interest in the thief and himself. More importantly, he also realized he had no idea where he was. Mind working quickly, he changed his grip on the man, taking his hand that was clutching the man's filthy clothes and slinging it over the man's shoulder, still ensuring that the man was not going anyway. John knew that if he got caught with the thief, he would be considered just as much of a troublemaker and it would take precious time for John to convince the solider that he was innocent. Time he didn't have. John wanted as little fuss as possible, especially after how much of an ordeal this turned out to be. Besides, the thief owed him a good turn.
"I've got a deal for you," he muttered into the man's ear. Even though he wasn't very tall for twelve years old, the thief was especially short for whatever age he was, so the two were approximately the same height. "If you tell me how to get to the docks of the Royal Navy, I'll get you away from here without getting arrested."
The thief looked at John as if he had just gone mad, but then the man's eyes flicked to the soldiers whose growing attention was even drawing the interest of the audience; the guard closest to them was clearly beginning to consider moving from his position as his eyes flicked to the man who was evidently the commanding officer up on the stage. Nodding frantically, the thief tried to turn around, wanting to get away from the guards as fast as possible.
"Ah, one more thing," said John, talking quickly now as he saw time slipping away, "don't try to steal anything more from me or I will call the guards."
"A'righ', a'righ', can we git a move on now?" said the thief sweating, but for an entirely different reason than the cross-city run. The nearest guard had final gotten the message from his superior and was moving gravely toward John and the thief.
John nodded in turn, carefully turning himself and the thief around, arm still around the man's shoulder, purse as far away from the smelly man as he could manage. "Okay, now laugh," said John, through gritted teeth, eyes darting over to the guard before plastering a huge smile on his face.
"Wha—?" asked the thief, eyes nervously hopping from the approaching guard to the exit.
"Trust me," said John through his goofy smile before laughing in the thief's face. The thief blinked stunned for a moment before joining in the laughter, either from finally going insane or because he understood what John was playing at. The two leaned against each other, cackling like maniacs as they tottered out of the auction area, leaving one very confused guard behind.
The two walked about a block, cackling like two possessed hyenas before suddenly dropping the façade and springing apart; John rechecking his bag and purse, the thief running his hand along his shoulders where John's arm had rested for so long, rubbing the spot.
"Tha' was righ' clever, tha' was," said the man earnestly, a mixture of respect and wariness now on the thief's face.
"Thanks," said John after checking through his pack and purse and finding everything accounted for. "But you've yet to tell me where the Royal docks are."
"Aye," acknowledged the thief, looking pointedly at the purse in John's hand.
"I've helped you escape potential arrest, chased you half way across the city, and I can yell for the guards to come get you right now and you still want incentive?" asked John flatly.
The thief just blinked at him and John heaved a sigh, before digging around in his purse to flick the thief a two pence piece. Deftly catching the coin, the thief pointed down the street and to the right. "Yer about there, jus' faller tha' street and 'ead to tha' righ'. You'll see tha main office w'ere they take tha' new recruits in sich," reported the thief quickly before turning and scurrying away.
"Thanks a lot," muttered John as he watched the retreating back of the thief dip around a corner, and then turned to follow his directions, hoping that the thief did not lie as a last trick.
Fortunately for John, the thief's instructions were true and John found himself in front of the Royal Navy headquarters in Portsmouth in a matter of minutes. Nervously shifting the pack on his back, he attempted to resettle his appearance after the chase through the city, carefully reworking his shoulder-length blond hair back into a presentable ponytail, and brushing the dirt off his clothes that would come off. Wincing as he stood upright, he noted the stains present on his pants and shirt and sighed, no doubt he did not look like the son of a retired, pensioned naval officer that he did when his mother said goodbye to him the morning before. As it was, there was no going back now, he thought shaking his head slightly before pulling the letter of reference from his father out of his pocket. Letting air rush out of his mouth in another sigh, he stepped into the building.
Inside the Royal Naval building, people bustled around almost as much as they did out in the market with the notable exception that there were more men in uniform than there were out in the market. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going and they all had very important things to do once they got there because no one hardly spent a moment to glance to the young boy who had just passed through the door. John hesitated at the door, suddenly overwhelmed with nerves; it was one thing to talk to a beggar who had just stolen his purse, it was a completely different thing to try to talk to one of these important figures. Swallowing slowly, John tried to get the attention of one of the sailors.
He quickly found an "excuse me, please" did not go very far as three consecutive passersby ignored him completely. He also found out a "pardon me" with a tug on the arm did not help much either, as four sailors hardly glanced at him and one gave John a rather rude shove. John scowled at the situation, looking around in frustration at the busy scene, deciding to just pick someone, approach them, and ask them flat out to help him. This was easier said than done because John still did not feel quite comfortable walking up to someone who clearly had important business to do, and everyone seemed to have important business to do. Nibbling his lip and scanning the room, John rubbed the straps of his pack and then froze, making eye contact with, what seemed, the only man who was not off to do something important. The man was a rather slight one but taller than John, lithe like a dancer with mousy brown hair. Appearing to be in his late twenties, the man's face nonetheless bore hard lines from months out at sea. His clothes were a little rougher than the others around him, but he held himself in the same way as they did, sure of himself. The man shot John a smile before pushing himself up from the wall he was leaning against and wandering over to John, relaxed hands in his pockets.
"So, y' lookin' ta join the Royal Navy?" asked the man lazily, raising his voice to be heard over the general clamor of the space.
"I hope so, sir," said John eagerly, happy that someone had noticed him, still running his hand nervously along a strap of his pack. "My father was in the Royal Navy, and I would like to follow his example."
"Na' tha's an a'mirable goal," acknowledged the man, looking Jim over with an expert's eye.
"So, if you wouldn't mind showing me where to sign up as a cabin boy, I would be much obliged," continued John, now moving both hands to rub his father's letter, paper crinkling underneath his fingers.
"Was tha' y' got there?" asked the man curiously, voice innocent enough.
John smiled nervously and stopped rubbing the parchment. "It's a letter from my father, a reference to join 'England on the high seas'," John declared, repeating a phrase he had often heard his father use.
The man blinked at John oddly, giving the boy a second look over. "Y' want ta sail wif England?" he asked.
"Aye, sir," responded John eagerly.
"Well, ye're in luck! Et jus' so 'appens tha' we're lookin' fer a cabin boy," exclaimed the man, thumping John suddenly on the back, knocking the wind out of him with his rough hands. Even though the man looked thin, he had ample muscles under his skin.
"Thank you, sir," coughed John, struggling to protest as he regained his breath. He wanted to sail with the Royal Navy, not whatever crew this man was from, but the other man did not stick around long enough to hear the boy's protest.
"Come along," said the man jovially, gesturing for the boy to catch up, which John quickly did, not sure of what else to do. "Me name's Matthew Pence. I'm a deckhand, I am."
John nodded in acknowledgment. "I'm John Silver," he said shortly, trying to keep pace with the man as the pair exited through the door John had just entered and wandered down toward the docks. "I was just going to say—"
The man, however did not seem to notice John's introduction or anything else he had said as the deckhand continued talking. "I've b'n sailin' wif England fer about five years now," babbled the amiable man, long easy strides twice John's own so the boy had to trot to keep up. "The cap'n's a good man, I s'pect y'll like 'im, so i's a pretty good deal overall." Matthew continued in a similar manner, yammering on about this or that particularity of the captain as the pair wound their way to the docks, dodging the lines of smaller fishing boats and local crafts.
Eventually, Matthew lead John to a particularly long pier where a small dinghy was tied, bobbing quietly in the waves. A somewhat sour faced boy sat near the rope that held the small craft to the dock, clearly keeping watch over the boat, whittling at a piece of wood with a small knife. The boy glanced up at the sound of the approaching pair, unruly dark hair slipping into his face, though not enough to cover his cold, bright green eyes. Frown flashing onto his face almost on a matter of reflex, the boy chucked the piece of wood into the water before standing up, examining John as the pair approached him, shoving the knife into his pocket.
"This wha' ye found?" asked the boy unimpressed once Matthew and John reached him, sarcasm evident in his voice. He was taller than John and perhaps a year older, and used both of these to his advantage as he scowled down at the shorter boy.
"Don' be so ready ta judge, Flint," said Matthew cheerfully, thumping John heavily on the shoulder again, almost toppling the boy into the water. "Said 'e wanted ta sail wif England, 'e did." John swung his arms around, doing an excellent impression of the windmill near his home to keep from falling in the water as the other boy just chuckled darkly, still unconvinced.
Sticking out his jaw stubbornly, John glared back at the boy after regaining his balance before turning to Matthew, clearly the friendlier member of the party. "Where are you taking me? I said I wanted to join the Royal Navy," John finally protested, glancing quickly around to assure himself that there were not any Navy ships nearby. A sinking feeling in his stomach alerted him to the fact that he might have been tricked however unintentionally.
"Bu' y' said y' wanted ta sail wif England," said Matthew, genuinely confused, scratching his chin as if in deep thought.
"Aw, leave th' boy 'ere," said Flint frustrated, waving a dismissal to John before turning to climb down into the little craft, immediately noticing the other boy's more refined speech. "'e's prob'bly too lily-liver ta sail wif England." The boy sneered as he looked at John. "Go a'ead and join tha Royal Navy, they need more softies like ye."
At this point, John was thoroughly confused about the situation and, more prominently, rather irritated at the rude boy. It could only stand to reason that the "England" that they were talking about was an actual person and not the Royal Navy, but who on earth would go around sailing under the name England was beyond him. Not to mention if he joined the Royal Navy he would not have to put up with the likes of Flint. John was in half a mind to turn around and try to find his way back to the Royal Navy headquarters to sign up to sail with the real England, the Royal Navy, but as he turned, he caught a strange smirk on the boy Flint's face. Something that seemed to say "I knew you couldn't handle it." That settled it for John, if there was anything that really irritated him; it was someone saying he could not do something.
"I really though' y' wanted ta sail wif England," Matthew was saying bemusedly when John's pack suddenly thunked into the bottom of the dinghy and John climbed in, flashing a defiant expression at the other boy. Matthew blinked down at John and Flint, finding himself the only one still on the dock. "Well, glad y' changed y'r mind! Le's git back ta the Red Queen," he declared, swinging off the dock with practiced ease and untying the little boat in the same motion, joining the other two boys.
Matthew took the rudder as the two boys each grabbed an oar, settling into an unspoken competition as they tried to out-row each other. Chatting obliviously, Matthew carefully guided the little craft through the larger ships anchored farther away from the docks, winding among frigates, schooners, and swoops of the harbor. John and Flint panted in unwitting synchronization, matching each other in pulling strength, sweating evenly.
After a few minutes of rowing, Matthew's voice finally broke through the panting of the two boys. "Ah, there's the Red Queen," exclaimed the man, pointing to a ship behind John's and Flint's backs.
Without even realizing it, John turned to look, catching a glimpse of a modestly sized Brig with fresh cream sails on two masts and odd red trimming on the ship's wood before Flint grunted in annoyance and John resumed rowing. It was mere seconds later when the dinghy bumped against the larger craft and a ladder was lowered. Without even waiting for a "guests first" Flint scrambled up the ladder with the ease of someone who had done it before. John frowned up after the boy, arms and back throbbing from the hard rowing, but refusing to admit it.
"Don' mind 'im," said Matthew cheerfully, catching the ladder to steady it, nodding to John to be the next up it. "'e's like tha' ta everyone."
John flashed the man a quick thankful smile before pulling on his pack and scrambling up the ladder himself. Quickly climbing his way up the ladder, John passed a series of cannon holes and received the chance to further inspect the intricate red trimming that seemed to line the entire ship. Patterns of red roses entangled in ivy surrounded the entire boat, somewhat faded by years at sea, but still visible. Finally cresting the ship's deck, the first thing John saw was a pleasant faced man with a fine black mustache, curled to a point at both ends. He offered a hand up, which John accepted, as the man's enormous hat bobbed with the movement. Feeling the somewhat pleasant sensation of being lifted over the gunwale by a man much stronger than him before being set onto the ship's deck, John glanced at the new space, catching a glimpse of Flint's back through the crowd of sailors as the boy ducked down the stairs into the hold.
"Well, you must be the new cabin boy Master Pence was charged to bring," said the dark-haired, mustached man, looking John over for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Men on either side of the mustached man were throwing ropes to Matthew down in the dinghy, helping to haul it out of the water and tie it to the ship.
"Aye, sir," said John carefully, looking at the man in turn, trying to guess the man's position.
The man chuckled, guessing what the boy was thinking. "I'm not the captain, not even the first mate. M'name's Owen Masters, second mate o' this ship," said the man, sweeping off his enormous hat and giving an extravagant bow, revealing dark brown, curly hair, before righting himself, placing the hat jauntily back on his head, and offering John a hand to shake.
John smiled in turn and shook the man's hand. "I'm John Silver, sir." Second Mate Owen Masters was dressed rather eccentrically, as if to compliment his enormous, feathered hat. The ruffled sleeves of his undershirt poked out from beneath his long multicolored, multi-fabric jacket. Twin, gold pistols stuck out from the man's pants pockets, which he seemed to display with pride—the pants, that is, not the pockets, as the pants seemed to be made of some rich, creamy fabric. It took John a couple minutes to fully take in the man's entire wardrobe and another few hours to fully appreciate it.
"Dawdling with the new recruit?" asked a stern voice over John's shoulder, making him jump.
Second Mate Masters suddenly grabbed a hold of John's shoulders and swung the boy around, revealing a dour faced man in rather formal blue Royal Navy outfitting, standing just next to John, arms clasped at ease behind his back, simple tricornered hat on his head.
"This here is the first in command, First Mate Winston Knowles," said Masters into John's ear, whispering conspiratorially, wicked smile flashing.
"Oh, pleasure to meet you, sir," said John, offering a hand to shake. "I'm John Silver."
Knowles peered sternly at the offered hand, eyes sweeping over John's rather haggard appearance before sniffing. "Take him to see the captain," he finally said, walking away to yell at some of the deckhands who apparently were not cleaning well enough.
"Don' worry 'bout 'im either, John," said a voice suddenly and John glanced down by his feet to see Matthew pulling the dinghy up, quickly tying a knot to anchor it in place out of the water before jumping skillfully to the deck, "'e's always like tha' too."
"Good work," said Masters, giving the deckhand a smile and a nod before ushering John to the captain's cabin, a hand still on the boy's shoulder.
The deck of the Red Queen bustled with activity as everyone available prepared her to sail again. Barrels of food and drink rolled into the hold as men scrubbed the deck. Holes in the sails were patched and broken pieces of sparring were repaired. Ropes were wound and riggings were tested as all the men picked up songs, switching from melody to melody seemingly at random. "Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum!" echoed from the riggings, switching suddenly from an old country song, and Masters joined in as he walked John across the deck, dodging a couple rolling barrels on the way. Approaching the stern of the ship, Mr. Masters ducked under the stairs leading up to the quarterdeck, opening the door under them, still ushering John.
John walked into the captain's cabin first, nervously rubbing a strap of his pack again. In front of him stood, what he presumed was, the captain of the ship. His back was to the boy as he stared out the windows lining the back of his cabin, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Wearing bright British red, the man looked very much like a Royal Navy officer at first glance, but his outer jacket flared down and out, longer than was proper for a Royal Navy captain, and it hung open around his body instead of properly buttoned. His hair was short and blond, rather unruly, refusing to lay flat to his head. The captain seemed to be unarmed, but many pistols, rifles and sabers surrounded the room. One fine saber in particular with gold embellishing on the helm, encased in a delicately engraved sheath, sat on display on the captain's desk. Charts and maps lined the walls as well as all manner of sea-faring equipment that John could not even begin to guess a use for. The most dramatic thing in the room, however, was a hat that sat on the captain's desk chair which challenged even Mr. Masters' own in extravagance. The door quietly closed behind him and John peeked over his shoulder to see the jolly Masters and the stern Knowles both standing at attention.
John whipped back around to see that the captain had turned to look at his guests, green eyes hidden under the bushiest eyebrows he had ever seen. He looked to only be about in his mid- to late twenties, but he held himself like someone much older. The captain looked sternly at John for a minute and then prompted, "Well?"
John licked his lips, furiously rubbing the spot on his strap. Knowles cleared his throat and John jerked his hands to his sides, practically feeling the disapproving look on the back of his head. "Ah, well, sir, I mean, Captain England," began John, speaking quickly.
"Me name's not, Captain England," interrupted the captain suddenly, though not rudely. "Tha's wha' tha crew calls me. Call me Captain Kirkland."
"Aye, Captain Eng-Kirkland," said John, catching himself and licking his lips nervously again, forcing himself to keep his hands by his side. The captain nodded so John continued on. "Well, I came to Portsmouth today to join the Royal Navy. I met Matthew—er—Mr. Pence in the headquarters and he said that he would take me to sail with England. So, that's why I'm here, sir, captain."
"Y' wanted ta join th' Royal Navy?" asked Captain Kirkland, almost as if he had not heard properly.
"Aye, captain. You see, my father was in the Royal Navy," said John, suddenly remembering the letter of reference and pulling it out of his pocket again. "I wish to do as he did." Glancing at the letter, John looked up at the captain and then offered the man the letter, seeing nothing else to do with it.
The captain silently took the letter and opened it, reading quickly over the words his father had written. "Wha's y'r name, boy?" asked the captain, looking sharply up at John after he had finished reading.
"John Silver, captain," said John, flushing slightly, realizing he probably should have introduced his name first off.
The captain nodded, not noticing the boy's discomfort, before sliding the letter on his desk. "I'm na' goin' ta pretend with ya, boy," he began slowly, looking up to lock eyes with John, face stern, "we're na' the Royal Navy, as y' prob'bly a'ready guessed, bu' I knew y'r father, 'e was a good man, an' I wouldn't 'esitate to 'ave another Silver on the 'igh seas."
"Thank you, captain," said John, feeling a brief swell on his chest at the compliments to his father, but not enough to overcome the quiet doubt in his mind. "But, captain, if you would permit me with one question?"
Captain Kirkland smirked and then nodded. "Aye, an' I'll give y' another one a' tha'," he said drily, smile flashing briefly across his face which seemed to brighten the man's entire stern outlook.
"If you're not Royal Navy men, and you're clearly not merchants, then what are you?" asked John, already guessing at the answer. He might have been a country boy, but he was no fool.
"We are gentlemen o' fortune," said Captain Kirkland simply.
"Pirates?" asked John, voice slightly higher than usual.
"Only sometimes," answered the captain, voice pleasant enough, but face otherwise absent of emotion.
John swallowed nervously, quickly weighing his options. He knew he probably still had the chance to return to the Royal Navy headquarters, but with his letter now in the captain's hands, it would be rather rude to ask for it back. Not to mention he did not know quite how he felt about breaking the law, even though pirates were more a law unto themselves. The captain did say that he knew his father, so did that mean his father was…? No, John just couldn't see his gentle father as a pirate. Opening his mouth to refuse to stay, Flint's smirking face flashed across his mind's eye, just daring him to chicken out.
Sensing his hesitation, Captain Kirkland seemed to soften slightly. "I won' say tha' this life is easier er better'n a life in tha Royal Navy, bu' it is more free. We give y' tha' chance ta leave if y' want, an', if et makes y' mind any easier, we do perform services fer 'is Majesty from time ta time."
John nodded. From Flint's smirking face, to the knowledge that he could leave when he wanted to, his mind was made up.
"Captain Kirkland," said John, looking at the captain in the eye, "if you need me, I humbly offer my services as a cabin boy."
Captain Kirkland gave a quick nod. "Well then, welcome aboard, Master Silver." Suddenly turning to grab the elaborate tricorn hat off of his desk chair and sweeping it on his head, the captain finally acknowledged his two officers. The captain's hat was bright red with fine white lace trimming, a rather extravagant burgundy feather brushing his back. "Mr. Masters, will y' please take tha lad to Mr. Quint down in tha galley. Mr. Knowles, how soon er we ta sailin'?"
With that, Second Mate Masters ushered John back out of the captain's cabin, closing the door behind him, cutting off the First Mate's report.
"So, what did ya think o' the captain?" asked Mr. Masters, smiling encouragingly at John.
"He seems very stern, but, well, he seems like quite a man," said John honestly. He still didn't know quite what to think of the captain. He had barely met the man, and yet. And yet. There was something about him that he immediately recognized, as if he was looking in a mirror for the first time in a long while and seeing a reflection of himself that he did not quite remember
"Aye, the captain has his own ways," acknowledged Mr. Masters, a mysterious expression flashing through his eyes, before he gave another quick smile to the boy. "One thing's for sure, his voyages are never boring. So, what say you we head over to the galley?" asked Mr. Masters, even though John did not have much choice in the matter, as the second mate lead the new cabin boy toward the bow of the ship, going toward the forward stairs to a lower deck, dodging working crew members the entire time.
After climbing down the stairs, the pair found themselves in the ship's galley where a pleasantly round man directed crew members as they brought supplies into his kitchen.
"Be careful with tha', ye 'ear me? Leastwise we won' 'ave fresh meat 'til we reach Tortuga," he called, warily watching the sailor who was setting a crate labeled "salted pork" into a pile of many other such crates. He seemed almost protective of his supplies, moving to rearrange the crate once it was placed on the ground by the sailor before wandering over to Mr. Masters and John. "Don' mess anyting while I'm na' watchin'," he ordered quickly over his shoulder.
"Wha' d' ye 'ave fer me now, Owen?" said the man, turning to Mr. Masters, mock sternness on his face, looking curiously at John. John on his part blinked for a second, finally remembering that Mr. Master's first name was Owen, before giving the new man a nervous smile.
"This here is John Silver, the new cabin boy," said the second mate, introducing John. The boy stuck out his hand which the man, who John rightly assumed as the cook, shook. "John, this is Bartimaeus Quint. He'll be watching over you." Mr. Masters smiled at the pair as they shook hands before turning on his heel to head back upstairs to attend to his duties. "I'll see you around, John, and Bart, I expect we'll be sailing soon."
"Thank ye, sir," responded Mr. Quint with a nod as the second mate climbed the stairs. The large cook sighed and scratched his head, fading red hair a fine stubble on his scalp, as he looked over John again. "'ere's 'opin' tha' yer more 'elpful than tha last one."
"Last one?" asked John nervously, countless possibilities rushing through his head as to the fate of the last cabin boy.
"Aye, James Flint," said the cook, scowling at nothing in particular, "s'ppose ta 'elp me in tha galley bu' I can' keep 'im away from the guns, always tryin' ta figure out how tha blasted tings work."
"Oh," said John, unable to keep the disgust off his face as he heard the unpleasant boy's name. "We've met."
The cook arched an eyebrow at John before descending into peals of laughter, ample stomach rolling with the motion. John blushed slightly, he hadn't meant to be funny. The cook thumped the boy on the shoulder, guiding him deeper into the galley, moving from the eating space lined with tables and benches to the more kitchen-like area with stoves, ovens and countertops all in a very concentrated space. "I tink we'll git along jus' fine."
John smiled in turn, happy the cook did not seem to be a stern man. "I hope so, sir."
"First off," began the man, glancing around the kitchen and shooting a scowl to the sailors who were still, in his opinion, sloppily unloading the food stuffs in one motion, "thar's no 'sirs' 'ere, jus' call me Bart. Second off, this space is mine—'ere and only 'ere I am tha cap'n, an' the cap'n knows et. Don' blink at me like tha', b'y," said Bart, chuckling good naturedly as John was doing just that. "We don' let the cap'n down to tha' galley, 'cause, with all due respect, 'e can' cook worf a wit." The cook traded a conspiratory wink with the boy. "Ye could say et's in 'is nature.
"Secondly—," began Bart.
"Um, thirdly, Mr. Quint," corrected John, not able to give up on the formality, his mother had raised him well.
"Righ', tha's wha' I said," said Bart breezily, arching an eyebrow at the "mister" but otherwise ignoring it, "ye'll report ta me brigh' an' early an' I'll set ye ta work. I s'pect I'll wake ye the firs' day, er Flint migh', bu' after tha' ye'll 'ave ta wake on yer own. We work all day ta prepare three meals fer the crew and a separate three meals fer the cap'n, the first an' second mate, an' the quartermaster which ye'll deliver ta them 'n tha cap'n's quaters. Once the crew an' tha officers er done wif thar food, we clean up an' begin all over again. You got that, b'y?"
"I think so," said John, sighing slightly. He couldn't help from sounding a bit disheartened, this was beginning to sound like less of an adventure and more like work.
"Cheer up, lad," said Bart, ruffling John's hair which made the boy give a grudging smile. "We 'ave fun 'ere, tha cap'n always keeps tings interestin'."
The cook glanced around his kitchen before nodding to himself. "I already 'ave dinner made, so fer now, claim yerself a hammock in the foc'sl, an' go watch tha launch."
"Right. Thank you, Mr. Quint," said John, blinking furiously and then licking his lips. "Um, what is the foc'sl?" he asked nervously after a pause. He may have grown up with his father's Royal Navy stories, but they did not include practical things like where everything on a ship was.
"Tha forecastle, lad," explained Mr. Quint patiently, pointing to the staircase that Mr. Masters and John had come down a few moments earlier, "et's w'ere tha crew sleeps. Jus' follow those stairs down another level an' 'ead toward tha bow, tha's front of tha ship."
"Thank you, Mr. Quint," said John, flashing a grateful smile before turning to head down the stairs.
Bartimaeus Quint, for his part, turned to the crew who was still unloading food into the storage area by the galley. "Wha're ye lot doing wif tha' flour? Place et over wif tha rest o' tha dry storage tings, elsewise ye'll 'ave 'ard bread fer tha voyage!" he barked at them, and then went to help when they weren't doing it just so.
"We'll 'ave 'ard bread anyways," muttered a voice.
"I 'eard tha', Stevens," retorted Bart, resettling the sacks of flour nonetheless.
Meanwhile, John trotted down the stairs, having to lean to the side when he was not moving fast enough for the busy sailors. Finally he reached the deck below the galley and turned toward the bow of the boat, easily spotting the hammocks that swung from the low ceiling. For the hammocks that were claimed, there seemed to be nets of personal items hung from the same hook that supported one side of the hammocks or, if not, belongings were simply tossed into the empty sling of the hammock. Peering around, John carefully picked his way through the hammocks, searching for one that wasn't claimed.
"What're ye doin' 'ere?" asked a voice, and John looked around, peering into the gloom before finally spotting a boy lounging in a hammock, whittling a piece of wood. It was none other than James Flint and John struggled to hide his displeasure at meeting him there.
"I'm looking for an empty hammock I can use," said John civilly enough. "Mr. Quint was looking for you, you know," he added, subtly taking a verbal jab at the boy
"Tha cook 'as done fine on 'is own, don' know wha' they need me fer," said James sourly, carving a particularly brutal cut into the piece of wood."
"Well, it's what they hired you for, isn't it?" asked John, slightly bemused.
James let out a wordless grunt of disgust, dropping any pretense of politeness, not that there was much of one, and just swore under his breath. At first, John assumed he was cursing the cook blue but then he caught something along the lines of "spoilt country boy", and frankly, he did not mine that he had not heard the rest clearly. Opening his mouth to respond, he then caught himself and closed it, it would not be wise to start a fight his first day on the ship because he knew if he retorted, there would most certainly be a fight.
Flint stared at John for a second and then offered a strange smile that was much scarier than his swearing. "Tha hammock next ta mine is tha only one tha's free." The boy pointed to a limp hammock next to his own just by to the wall.
"Thanks," said John suspiciously, walking over to the hammock. Carefully inspecting the hammock, making sure there weren't any holes in it, or worse, before slinging his pack into it, deciding to look for a net for his things later.
John could feel the other boy's eyes on him, watching him like a cat that had just seen a mouse. "I 'aven't got yer name yet," said James Flint lazily, putting his knife back in his pocket and placing his whittling aside before getting up and slouching over to stand over John.
"I'm John Silver," said John, not offering his hand to shake, looking steadily up at the boy. Flint scowled down at the boy, trying to intimidate him and furious that he wasn't blinking.
Suddenly Flint lunged, as if to jump at John, and the younger boy tensed, bracing for what the older one was about to do. Breaking off the move just as suddenly, Flint laughed a cruel laugh. "Why're ye flinchin', boy?" asked Flint, malicious smile on his lips. "Nothin' ta be 'fraid of 'ere." He laughed again and then shoved past John, pounding up the stairs to a higher deck.
Letting a sigh hiss out through his teeth, John relaxed fully for the first time since he saw Flint in the crew's quarters. Checking his pack one last time in his new hammock, he followed Flint up the stairs, anxiety from the meeting with the unpleasant boy leaving him as his excitement for the launch returned.
Finally emerging onto the deck, John looked around to see a new type of busy-ness had settled on the crew. Now sailors were no longer checking the ship's gear or loading supplies but were up in the rigging loosening the ropes that kept the sails bound. Another group of sailors towards the bow of the ship cranked the mechanism that slowly raised the anchor out of the water under the supervision of Mr. Masters. Mr. Knowles, for his part, stood on the quarterdeck with Captain England, keeping an eye on the crew up in the riggings. The captain stood proud next to the man at the helm, almost as if he were steering the ship. The sword that John had seen on the captain's desk was now strapped to his side, glinting in the late afternoon sunlight, the captain's hand resting gently on the hilt.
Feeling rather useless, John turned to go stand by Masters, hoping that the man would explain to him what was going on.
"Silver! John Silver!" called a voice and John turned to see the captain looking at him from his position. Giving a quick smile, John trotted up to join the captain, heart pounding at being called over by him.
"This y'r firs' launch, John?" asked the captain, standing at ease, weight evenly balanced as he calmly watched the proceedings. Knowles's eyes flicked once to acknowledge John, but then returned to watching the crew in the riggings. Sails were beginning to flap open now, unraveling as the crew undid the knots and swelling with the stiff breeze.
"Aye, captain," said John excited, his eyes shining.
The captain just nodded, a fond smile warming his face as he stared over the deck of his ship, the first prolonged emotion John had seen on the man yet.
"Captain, the anchor is up," reported Masters, taking the steps two at a time to get to his captain's side and joining Knowles in the examination of the riggings.
"Good," said Captain Kirkland, fond smile leaving his lips as a fiery glint entered his eyes though he kept his voice calm, "le's be off then, Knowles, we've go' a distance ta go b'fore we catch up with Carriedez."
Knowles nodded mutely before raising a whistle that hung around his neck and blowing a sharp series of blasts. The crew, clearly knowing the meaning of this, cheered, though continued at their work and the helmsman regripped the wheel, his bald head reflecting the sunlight.
It was tense for a moment as the Red Queen paused, wind not quite pulling her yet, but then the helmsman tapped the wheel, almost caressing it a couple degrees clockwise and the sails snapped full, wind rushing into them and the ship was on her way. The crew picked up another song, singing joyfully, as the Red Queen sailed out of Portsmouth's harbor.
"Excellently done, gentl'men," said Captain Kirkland, nodding to his two mates and the helmsman, glancing at John before heading to the stairs to go back to his cabin.
Masters smiled as he watched his captain leave, but Knowles just scowled up at the crew still hanging in the riggings.
"Oh, cheer up, Knowles," said Masters, nudging the older man, playful smile on his face. "Let the men have their fun while they're not sick of this boat yet."
"Singing is just not proper," insisted Knowles, turning his scowl to Masters now as the second mate just returned the look with an innocent one. "When I was with the Royal Navy—"
"But you're not with the Royal Navy now," Masters cut off smoothly, as if had done so hundreds of times before, "you're with Captain England. You know how he likes things."
Masters opened his mouth as if to say more but then shut it again, giving a mischievous smirk as the first mate just muttered into his collar and wandered to the main deck to inspect how the crew was doing.
"You'll see, John," said Masters, looking sidelong at the boy who had quietly watched the whole situation. "Knowles is a great sailor, wonderful first mate, but he don't quite know how to have fun—stiff from too long out in the sea spray, I think—which is why the captain hired me, just to make sure Knowles doesn't break under the pressure. O' course, that sounds like I'm bragging," he added, almost as an afterthought, but not as if he particularly cared.
John snorted at the presumptuousness of the second mate, as the man just chuckled to himself. "Off with you, then, I'm sure ol' Bart has a job for ya now."
A/N: Notice how long this chapter is. (Well, if you've gotten this far, then you obviously have.) Anyway, my point in this is that most of the chapters in this story are going to be about this long or longer, so prepare for the long haul, kids. I hope you enjoyed what you read, and thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I'm glad people are actually enjoying this slightly odd crossover.