"Hoist the colours!" Sparrow called immediately, setting a hasty course for the ship. The crew looked stony faced as the black flag hung rose, slack in the stifling midday haze. In a few moments I could see the French vessel – it was a typical Merchantman; large, with an uncommonly commodious hold, but also a cumbersome rounded hull that made them slow and clumsy in the water. She was struggling without success to turn as we fast approached, the Pearl could move with fiercesome speed when her Captain willed it. I saw now how the pirate ship's agility was her winning card, her victims were so sure of out running such a scruffy, unwieldy looking frigate they never made ready to fight. And in making ready to sail, they never noticed her forty guns.
I kept low, crouching behind the gunwale to avoid any shot, watching helplessly as the merchant's crew scuttled about on deck, scared to the point of stupidity, as well they might be, with the Pearl's brutal bulk and black sails bearing down upon them. Sparrow's crew, on the other hand, seemed calm and businesslike about the whole operation, cutlasses and pistols were handed out. Sparrow stood before his men and spoke simply;
"Canons at the ready! Give 'em one steady hit and we'll board. Take everything you find of value." The pirates responded with a roar, raising their cutlasses above their hats. "And what do we not take, Cannonball?" Even now, Sparrow always reminded him.
"Prisoners, Cap'n" The great bear of a man replied like a sulky child.
As easily as clockwork, the crew primed the canons and shot a sickening broadside into the ungainly Merchantman, it tilted towards us and, as one man, the score of pirates threw their grapples and boarded, cutlasses and pistols glinting in the endless sun.
Just as the raid on my own ship, it looked to be over quickly and quietly – the crew were not only an excellent team before the mast, but also worked in perfect harmony about the business of plundering and threatening. Any resistance was soon over, and the French crew were tied to the mainmast, leaving the pirates free to plunder the ship at their leisure.
I stuck my head cautiously over the rail, the crew were laughing and joking amongst themselves, working at a leisurely pace bringing the contents of the hold up to the deck. Sparrow was watching their progress with a mild grin on his face and after a time Anamaria picked a party to begin carrying the haul over to the Pearl.
No one was watching the prisoners.
The French Captain had a closely-clipped grey beard and was a tall, sparsely built man. It was his slight figure that allowed him to slowly ease free of the cords that bound him. With a motion for silence towards his shipmates he drew a pistol and inched his way over to Sparrow.
"Captain – look out!" I screamed with all my might, jumping up from the protection of the gunwale. In an instant, the world was a flurry of movement – Sparrow drew his cutlass and lunged for the Frenchman, who dodged and aimed a shot at me. Before I could think something sped past my ear and I smelt burning hair. The sounds of battle broke out on the merchant ship, it made my head ring and I held a hand to my temple to steady myself, when I pulled it away, it was covered in blood. The sun was suddenly hotter and bigger, the deck so wet and slick and the stink of salt water and sodden wood so strong I could barely stand. Gunshots and clashes of steal rang in my head, above a steady sickening beat which I gradually realised was my heart before my vision swan like a fish and I sunk, once again, below the gunwale.
I opened my eyes. I couldn't see. All was black, and a thick smell oppressed me. Panicking, I began to thrash about, and the old blanket that has been covering my body fell away. I kicked it away, fearfully wondering why they had covered my face? I was inside - the air was cooler and I had an almighty pain in my head. After a moment more I realised I was in the galley: the ships kitchen, domain of Anamaria.
But the figure lying on a thin pallet bed opposite me was not Anamaria; it was Butler, the ship's surgeon. His face was while and he lay perfectly still. For one appalling moment I thought he was dead, then I saw his hand twitch and I relaxed, but only until I noticed that hand only had two fingers left on it. Then he turned and I saw the cut on his face. A sword had bit into the delicate bones and the right side of his face was a mask of sticky, dark blood. His cheekbones had been crushed, there was nothing left of his right eye, his nostril had been cut into and flared away from his face with every breath. Even his mouth had a deep cut across his two lips, and when he spoke it was with difficulty, his voice low and husky, and he spluttered blood with every word.
"How. Are. You. Feeling?" The question of doctors everywhere. He lay back exhausted after this, resting the good side of his head against the pillow.
I stared into his face, that moving, red mass that bubbled and bled with every breath and couldn't answer. I opened my mouth to reply, but it was bile, not words that rose in my throat and I turned away from him, retching painfully onto the floor. When my stomach was empty I lay back, avoiding the sight of the surgeon, and tried to gather my thoughts.
I put my hand up to my head, where I had felt blood earlier. My hair and shoulder were now covered with dried blood, brown and sticky. I could feel the lobe of my ear was gone, and with a sick thump of my heart, I realised the bullet from the Frenchman's gun must have just missed my skull.
As my senses slowly recovered, I felt a great need to be out of that room. The stench of Butler's fresh blood mingled with the smell of my own, congealing in my hair. The air felt fresher and I dared to hope the heat of the day might be over.