Page 19 of Hooking Captain Teeth

“Their cannon doors are open,” she says with a gasp.

As I rip the spyglass from her gloved hands to see for myself, she yells over my shoulder. “Drop the anchor! Open the doors and ready the cannons!”

“That’s my job! If we drop anchor, we’ll have to raise it before we board her,” I whisper through clenchedteeth. I shake the spyglass at her like a paddle I’m threatening to spank her with until she pries it from my fingers. Then, to my deck, I yell, “Open the doors and ready the cannons. Don’t drop the anchor!”

The message loses something when it’s halfway down the deck before the words leave my lips. I scowl at the irritant stealing my thunder, but she’s looking through my spyglass. My pudding-headed mateys drop the anchor chains on deck and scamper back to their position inside the gunnery’s trench.

The Spanish Galleon quietly awaits her fate. Her doors are open, but her cannons aren’t at the ready. She’s waiting for our Jolly Roger to climb the flagpole or another Union Jack. If she fires at us and we’re English, a peace treaty will dissolve. If she fires at us and we’re French, they will be rewarded when they return home. If we raise the Jolly Roger or a Yellow Jack, they will open fire to defend their lives. Our captain’s quarters have a closet full of flags. We have switched sides with the treaties as often as landlubbing mollies change their wigs with the fashion.

“What are you waiting for?” The wench whispers, handing me the spyglass for a glimpse before she rips it from my hands again. “Why isn’t their captain on the deck?”

“What do you mean? If they’re military, theircaptain is the sailor with more feathers than a peacock sticking from his hat. If they are merchants, the captain—"

“There is a feathered hat on deck, but it sits on a man without medals on his uniform. The man covered in finery ditched his hat in favor of the crow’s nest,” she says, handing me the spyglass.

Well, shiver me timbers. She’s as sharp as she’s tenacious and irritating. Captain hides amongst the crows while some poor sod wears his ostentatious hat on deck. That yellow-bellied criminal isn’t worth the bullet, but I can’t have him surprising us either.

“Greenhorn, snipe their scout,” I shout. The message travels across the ratlines and up the sails to Greenhorn, who sits in our crow’s nest with a long rifle.

What I wouldn’t give for an experienced man to be in Greenhorn’s place?! In the good ol’days, we had Sharp as our sniper. True to his name, Greenhorn’s young age and lack of practice with a rifle take center stage when he misses the shot. The bullet doesn’t just sail into the abyss but rips a gaping hole in their main sail that would attract the attention of anyone for miles…not excluding the turkeys on deck.

They spring into action, readying cannons, locking doors, and running to their battle stations. Their plannedbattle positions give away their training as military, but they don’t wear uniforms or carry navy-issued weapons.

“Raise the Jolly Roger,” I yell in unison with my female shadow. Bodies scramble like ants across the Galleon’s deck as I gaze through the spyglass. The captain in the crow’s nest spins around with his arms whirling. Perhaps he’s considering flying off his doomed vessel? “Greenhorn, fire again! Her doors are open!”

As Greenhorn misses a second time, splintering the bottom of the Galleon’s crow’s nest, the Spanish fire her cannons. The shots drop into the drink a few yards from our hull.

A warning shot.

“Fire!” I yell, and our cannons shoot true. A line of fifteen holes mars the side of the Galleon. More people scurry from hole to hole inside the boat.

“Fire!” The second command to fire comes from the wench, and I’ll be a grogblossom if my nutmegs don’t follow her orders as true as mine. Even Greenhorn shoots one more time. Their Captain falls from the Crow’s nest to Davey Jones’s locker.

“Full sails to her. It’s time to go on account!” I yell. The enemy fires, and the stair railing to the forecastle deck explodes to shower us in splinters. The wench grabs my elbow and presses against me. Her eyes are round with fear on her whitened face.

“You didn’t say you would board her! I thought if you made enough holes in their boat, they would hand over the loot!”

“Which is why I’m the Captain,” I sneer, shaking her off my arm. “Ready the lines to tie the prize to our decks. We’re taking all she has before we sink her.”

My crew cheers as my female companion cries into her gloves. I shove her toward the kitchen as I leave the forecastle deck for the ratlines. My longsword cools my palm as I unsheathe it from my belt. A good captain always leads the charge over the rail—even Magda the she-devil flew into enemy territory first. My crew pats my shoulders and shakes my free hand as I pass. I’m fifteen feet off the ground when the irritating wench joins me. She’s commandeered Chub’s cat-o-nine tails as her weapon of choice…odd. Why she wouldn’t grab a pistol on her way to the kitchen is beyond me.

“It’s not too late to hide below with Catalina—”

“If you die before rescuing my sister, I have nothing,” she says with a firm set to her mouth and fire blazing in her eyes. We drop from the rigging into the gunnery trench. My crew stares at the wench as if they’ve never seen a woman before. “I have nothing to lose.”

“Suit yourself,” I quip as my crew tosses the gangplanks between the two boats.

Ropes armed with wicked hooks sail from the gunnery trenches to the neighboring deck. Anticipation of the fight buzzes amongst me hearties, connecting us with a bolt of lightning. The smell of blood, sweat, and gunpowder fills my nose as my body remembers every passage I’ve had over the rail. The boat rocks and groans as she fights the tethers like a bucking horse unwilling to shed her freedom without a battle.

“Hold steady,” I warn my young, inexperienced crew. I love every one of them, and if one of their empty heads pops above the railing, the enemy will blow it off. “Wait for the quiet.”

Enemy sailors yell at one another in Spanish. Their boots thump on their deck.

My hair whips around my head, so I tuck the errant strands behind my ear…

Greenhorn mistakes my tick for a signal. He climbs on a line from the crow’s nest and soars over our heads to the opposing boat. With his single-shot pistol in one hand and the rope in the other, he will hit their deck with one chance to kill every enemy aboard. His sword is sheathed in his belt. My jaw hits the bilge as I helplessly gape at the blooming idiot. His roar is drowned out by a chorus of gunfire.

“Charge,” I yell to send our crew over therailing to help him. Bodies cross the gangplanks, jump from our rigging, and fly across the ocean as pirates fling themselves onto the Galleon.

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