MB Short Story: The Ideal (Patreon)

NB: The second half of this story is also releasing tonight, but I figured that I'd post the first half now since as most people are in a later time zone than I'm currently located. Originally, I'd intended to finish the short story about John and Mayor Z, but ultimately I needed something fun and lighthearted. And so, well . . .

Ahoy, mateys! Here be a Historical AU about psychic pirates.

* * * *

Terms To Know

Privateer: A legal pirate, commissioned by governments to attack the merchant/military ships of a rival nation. Privateers were allowed to keep (and even taxed on) any booty seized from these ships.

Booty:

(1) Something people shake; derived from the 16th century English word “bottie” meaning “buttocks.”

(2) Something people steal, usually referring to precious goods during times of war; originating from the Low German word for “plunder/share.”

War of 1812: A war fought from 1812 - 1815 between Great Britain and the United States over maritime rights. The United States relied heavily on privateering for protection and profit, taxing seized prizes at 30-40%.

Governmental Tax On Your Booty: The pun I randomly thought up which inspired me to read up on privateers and subsequently write this story.

* * * *

In the history of maritime banditry, no pirate ever sailed on a more aptly named ship than The Ideal.

This observation was, admittedly, made with no little amount of bias by The Ideal’s own captain. But even Nick’s notoriously taciturn quartermaster, Ambrose Kim, conceded that the schooner was an elegant example of everything a privateer ship should be; lithe and nimble, The Ideal didn’t look particularly threatening, but she was (as Nick often declared) the fastest thing in the sea other than the dolphins (at this point, Nick’s navigator, Taliaferro Parker, would often remind him not to get too cocky under the metaphorical admonishment that dolphins were often caught by sharks).

Another, different crew might consider The Ideal’s six cannons to be inadequate for battle given that most British merchant frigates possessed at least five times the number, with first rate warships counting upwards of one hundred. But The Ideal’s canons were rarely fired, and her crew of thirty, which was small even given the ship’s size, could have likely done as well with two canons as with six. They relied on a more subtle and infinitely more dangerous arsenal to win sea battles.

Sally Alavidze had never intended to become a pirate. Not that there were many career options available to an orphan in Little Friendsville, Connecticut, but she’d learned to sew at the orphanage so that she might one day make herself useful. While she found mending tedious, of course, she’d always thought it might be rather wonderful to make dresses out of soft silks and vivid brocades—the kind of gowns worn by the orphanage’s patrons when they visited at Christmas to hand out sweets and allowed the children bask in their benevolence.

With Sister Mary Margaret’s letter of character tucked into the pocket of her brown and patched tabby skirt, Sally had headed to Hartford in order to seek employment at a dress shop. No one in Hartford knew about her “fits,” and Sally had become better at keeping quiet and still whenever the visions occurred. At best, people considered her to be a hardworking, if somewhat distracted, girl. At worst . . .

Well, the worst had happened, so there was no point in dwelling on it.

A sudden wave slapped against The Ideal’s side right where Sally was leaning over the railing to gaze contemplatively at the sunset. It crashed over her, drenching her tied-back curls and plastering her twill breaches—a far cry from the dresses she’d once hoped to create—to her thighs.

Someone laughed, and Sally spun around, fury already building insider her at the culprit.

* * * *

Nick hadn’t meant to laugh at the newest member of his crew. The girl had gone through a rough time adjusting to life aboard ship; she’d wandered around listless and idle for days, uncertain of what to do and unable to even swim. Then a storm had torn through the jib sail, and she’d offered to patch it up. She’d proven a dab hand at mending the canvas, so much so that even Ambrose had praised her work, and Nick resolved to get her trained by a sailmaker once they docked. It would be good to have someone on the crew capable of more than emergency patch jobs that would only hold until the next port.

Nick raised his hands defensively as Sally pivoted to face him, her hazel eyes flashing with anger. Her eyes were greener at sea than they were on land, Nick had noticed, perhaps due to the reflection of the ocean. Her freckles had also doubled in number in the week since she’d abroad, although Nick doubted that she would appreciate him pointing this out.

“You’ll never be completely dry aboard The Ideal, I’m afraid,” Nick said quickly, before Sally could condemn his amusement. “How have the swimming lessons been going?”

Sally’s shoulders drooped as she recalled her last attempt not to drown. “Kent says that I’m making progress,” she informed Nick. “I float on my back easily enough, but I still have trouble keeping my head up while treading water.”

“Keep at it,” Nick encouraged. “Half the crew didn’t know how to swim when they came aboard, either. I’m still not completely convinced that Valero wouldn’t drown in a tidal pool.”

Sally smiled politely at his joke before falling quiet. A few of the other crewmembers cast curious looks in their direction, wondering if the new girl had somehow gotten into trouble with their famously easygoing captain. None halted their activities to check up on her, though; a crew as small as The Ideal’s meant that if you weren’t sleeping, you were working on deck (with the exception of evenings when the wind was calm and Talia plied Kent with enough grog that he sang sea shanties to the accompaniment of Sohvi’s fiddle).

“Is the rest of the crew . . .” Sally bit her lower lip, looking conflicted. And even, Nick thought, a little scared.

He didn’t blame her; even on the day they’d met, when she’d been struck by a premonition so powerful that it’d brought her to her knees in the middle of a crowded street, making it clear to the entire world what she was . . . Even then, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to say the word, despite Nick’s reassurance that he was, if not the same, at least similar.

Sally took a deep breath, lowering her head slightly so that a strand of wet curls obscured her eyes. “Is the rest of the crew like us?” she asked.

“You mean, are they Witched?”

She flinched at the word but gave a tiny nod. Nick empathized; he didn’t particularly care for the description of being “Witched,” either, as if they’d both been bespelled by the Devil, but it was at least better than the accusation of “Witch” that would’ve seen them both burnt at the stake a mere fifty years prior.

“Only about the half the crew has talents,” Nick said delicately. This wasn’t the first time he’d given this speech with a new arrival and it likely wouldn’t be the last. “Kent isn’t; Talia either.” Sally seemed to enjoy the company of both the gunner and navigator, so Nick figured that those were the best examples to start with.

“Then why do they. . .” This time, Sally couldn’t even finish the question.

Nick rested a hand atop her head, making her glance up. He looked incredibly sympathetic, and also immensely sad.

“Some folk believe that Ments deserve a better life than being locked up in an institution or asylum,” Nick said. A note of bitterness crept into his voice. “Or indentured to the military and ordered to murder at the whim of a general.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Sally asked. “Were you a soldier?”

Nick’s throat tightened, but he nonetheless managed to force the words. “Not for long,” he said. “My abilities let me be . . . persuasive. I convinced them that I’d be more of an asset against the British as an independent operator than as a leashed dog.”

“That’s how you became a privateer?”

Nick nodded. “My father owned a successful merchant fleet. Like me, he was persuasive. My sibling took over the family business, but we were both raised at sea. When the war broke out, this seemed like a natural fit.” He flashed her a smile that was more sorrowful than dashing. “Plus, my position lets me rescue damsels in distress.”

Sally shivered, cold from the wind and her wet clothes but also at the thought of what might’ve happened had Nick not “persuaded” the crowd to leave her alone after she’d had that last vision. It had been the most detailed glimpse into the future she’d ever received, and it had featured none other than the man who was now shrugging off his coat to wrap it around her shoulders.

“I saw you,” she said. “Right before you came over. I saw you in the crowd.”

“My handsome visage tends to draw attention.” Nick winked at her, looking every inch the heartbreak pirate without his jacket, white shirt billowing in the wind and unbuttoned to reveal more of the male chest than Sally had ever before seen. Any other time, she might’ve appreciated the view. But right now, she needed to get the words out while she still had the courage built up.

“I saw you in the crowd,” Sally slowly repeated. “Then I saw you in the future.”

Nick stilled, his expression turning instantly from flirtatious to grim. “I was the trigger for your premonition?”

She nodded, and Nick cursed. He’d known only one other person like Sally who could see into the future, a former crewmate who’d . . . Nick swallowed. No. He wouldn’t think about what had happened to Isaiah.

“Tell me everything,” Nick ordered.

If something dire enough to trigger a seer’s premonition lay in his crew’s future, he no longer had the luxury of giving Sally time to adjust. Isaiah’s prophecies had let him and Ambrose prepare continuity plans to handle future dangers, but each vision had still been accompanied by at least one unavoidable death.

* * * *

“Captain, we’re being followed.”

Grayson Black looked up from the letter he’d been composing to his mother, discretely shuffling it under one of the many maps that covered his desk. The last time Caleb had caught him writing letters home, the petty officer had told the rest of the crew. Gray had been subjected to a month of snickers and whispers that the hoity toity captain still clung to his mama’s apron strings . . . and that said mama was, of all horrific things, an American. Which meant Grayson was descended from one of the enemy.

“Followed by whom?” Gray asked with a stern look that caused Caleb’s eyes to snap guiltily from where they’d been lingering on his rearranged paperwork.

“It looks to be a packet ship, sir,” Caleb said hesitantly.

“British or American colors?” Gray asked.

“Ours, sir.”

Gray frowned. They weren’t near any of the known trade routes that carried mail between England and her colonies, nor would a packet ship usually have reason to approach a British warship unscheduled.

“Lieutenant Rudzite wants to fire a warning shot, sir,” Caleb added hesitantly.

Gray kept his expression neutral even as a long stream of curses flooded his mind. Half of Reese’s “warning shots” hit the ship at which they were aimed; it was one of the reasons that the Admiralty had assigned Gray command of the Vengeanceafter its last captain had died in battle, instead of promoting from within the crew’s ranks.

Gray sighed and stood from his chair. Caleb followed him out of the captains’ quarters, down the cramped hallway, and up the ladder to the top deck. They found Reese already in conversation with Antonio, the ship’s gunner.

“There will be no warning shot,” Gray barked at them. He squinted at the horizon, barely able to make out the hazy outline the small schooner approaching.

He held out his hand. Reese handed over his telescope without complaint, but Gray caught him and Antonio exchange a sullen look. Both men clearly resented an outsider having been granted command over the Vengeance, but the Royal Navy didn’t trust Reese Rudzite. As for Gray, he’d long ago learned not to trust anyone.

Through the telescope, the packet ship resembled one of the many ships that ran mail between Nova Scotia and the British Isles. It was small and built for speed rather than battle. It certainly represented no threat against the Vengeance, a warship which boasted two gundecks, ninety-eight canons, and a crew of over two-hundred.

And yet . . .

Something about its rapid approach caused Gray’s gut to tense. Better than anyone, he knew that some things were more than they seemed.

“Guerra, prepare the upper gundeck,” he ordered Antonio, passing the telescope back to Reese. “Lieutenant Rudzite, a word.”

Gray waited for Caleb to leave with Antonio before addressing Reese. “Take half of the men on duty below decks,” he said. “If their intentions aren’t friendly, it won’t hurt for them to believe us undermanned.”

Reese scowled. “Vengeance can handle a ship that size without resorting to tricks, Captain. If you’d only allow—”

“No warning shots, Rudzite,” Gray repeated. “We wait to discover their intentions.”

* * * *

“This is suicide,” Talia said cheerfully. “You know that, right?”

Nick’s lips tightened at the navigator’s sunny tone which was belied by the worry evident in her gaze. He looked away, focusing instead on the gold earrings which lined her ear, worried that she might be able to pick up on his fear and uncertainty if he made direct eye contact.

“The Ideal goes after merchant vessels,” Talia continued. “It’s what we’re good at. What we’re equipped to do. We don’t go after warships, let alone ones the size of Jonah’s whale.”

“We’re not going after a warship,” Nick said. “We’re going after a man.”

“A man currently on a warship.”

Nick shrugged and flashed Talia a sheepish smile. “We waltz in the ballrooms available.”

“I prefer a lively schottische. Remind me again why we’re doing this?”

“Our new sailmaker had a vision.”

“You said as much during the crew meeting,” Talia said. “But you and Ambrose have been remarkably tightlipped about the whole affair otherwise. Rosy is always tightlipped, but you? Not so much.”

“All Sally knows is that someone on that ship is responsible for my death,” Nick said. “We’re going to stop him.”

Talia’s eyes widened with alarm. “Someone on that ship is going to kill you, and I’m sailing us right towards him?” Her hands gripped the helm tighter as if tempted to turn it around. “When I said this was suicide, Captain, I didn’t actually think that’s what you had in mind.”

Nick chuckled grimly. “I have no intentions on dying. Sally’s vision saw him kill me on land.”

“Then how do you know he’s on this ship?”

“‘Know’ is a strong word,” the ship’s quartermaster interrupted their conversation. Ambrose Kim’s expression was even more sternly disapproving than usual beneath his black tricorn hat, the shadows visible beneath his eyes from having stayed up half the night attempting to convince Nick to abandon his “foolhardy, absurd, and asininely reckless” plan.

“Alavidze’s premonition placed Nick and our target on land,” Ambrose continued. “Right in front of a docked ship named Vengeance.”

“Which is the ship we’re now pursuing,” Talia said. “So, Captain thinks his mystery murderer is a crewmate?”

“Most likely an officer,” Nick said. “His coat had gold buttons.”  He trailed two fingers down the edge of his own long coat, idly noticing that the garment still smelled faintly of their newest crewmember. Like vanilla and warm honey, he thought. I should bake the crew cinnamon rolls if we survive this.

“It’s a longshot,” Ambrose said.

“A shot that I’ll survive is a longshot that I’m willing to take,” Nick said with an unconvincing grin. “You know how seers work. The only other way I could possibly avoid this fate is by never stepping foot on solid ground again.”

Ambrose leveled him with an unamused look. “We’re not pursuing the Vengeance to save your life.”

“No,” Nick admitted. “We’re not.”

Talia glanced between the two men before heaving a sigh. “Well, if either of you want me to continue steering us towards Captain’s death,” she said, “y’all better disclose what we’re about to die for.”

Ambrose crossed his arms, continuing to look at Nick expectedly.

“Sally described the docks where she saw me die,” Nick told Talia. “She said the ships around me were burning. I recognized the area as Port Unity.”

“Port Unity?” Talia’s expression turned puzzled as she scoured through her navigational knowledge for the location. “You mean that tiny coastal town in New Hampshire? Hell, it’s more of a village. Why on earth would we ever stop there?”

“My family lives in that town,” Nick said. “My sibling’s office is on those docks.”

The Wiseman family had worked hard to keep Port Unity prosperous, and in return, Port Unity’s small size had kept the Wisemans' safe. If its citizens suspected that John Wiseman was a little too cunning and that Hope Wiseman a little too knowing . . . well, the Wisemans were good people. Just look at the new schoolhouse they’d paid for. Nick would have likely gone undiscovered there as well, but no, he’d yearned to travel.

Nick blinked and shook his head, determined not to dwell on what-ifs and should-haves. Sally’s vision made it clear that his family was in danger, and he’d do anything to stop it from coming true.

After all, he was dead either way.

Part 2: https://www.patreon.com/posts/66993837