Page 6 of Scourge of the Shores
Trust would now be earned, he told himself, donning the realization of the target painted on his back.
Robert opened his arms wide, and the right words rolled off his tongue.
“Tonight, we send Captain Robert ‘The Ruthless’ Jaymes off as he embarks for Tophet, not with sorrow but with respect. He mastered the seas, united the Pirate Kings of the North, and left a legacy none will surpass. His name will echo through time. Raise your cups. Raise your scabbards. He was my father. He was the leader of the Pirate Kings.”
He dipped his chin in a deep respect for his father, the legendary Pirate King who, in one generation, did more than any other pirate in the history of the known world. Robert brushed off the one exception: the first Pirate King, Chadwick, who had ruled the North Sea alone for his entire period of piracy.
Hats came off heads as the Pirate Kings and crew honored the late Jaymes. Robert summoned the undertaker and his assistants with a flick of his finger. Knowing his father’s failing state, he had already paid them in advance. The neutral island was all too happy to receive a hundred Delphi for the internment of the great Captain Jaymes.
At least at Rogue’s Isle, no one would touch the burial site or risk death. Only the best merchants worked out of Rogue’s Isle, so the coffin was pristinely carved with detailed scenes of Jaymes’s rise to worldwide fame, though he’d only sailed the North Sea.
The night was full of ale, rum, and grog as the island’s visitors celebrated the late pirate’s life and patted Robert Jaymes on the back as his successor. Wenches and strumpets lined the inns, waiting for the men who wanted a night to remember and leave with their pockets empty. But Robert only took one rum, maybe two.
Robert swirled the rum in his cup, letting its scent cloud the air. He pressed it to his lips but never drank. Across the room, Pirate Kings slurred their words, their coin pouches growing lighter with every round. His father’s voice echoed in his mind: “Drink, but never enough to dull your wits. They respect a pirate who drinks. They follow a pirate who stays standing.”
So Robert danced and twirled and slurred his words, but when the others were passed out, he stood alone in the only tavern at Rogue’s Isle, The Drunken Sailor. Robert chuckled at the irony of its name as he took a last swig of his rum before setting it on the counter, dropping an extra Delphi for the party’s mess. The tavern owner and barkeep swiped it up and nodded to Robert with bloodshot eyes. “Thank ye, Captain Jaymes,” he said with a slur of his words. “Mighty generous of ye.”
Robert nodded before stepping over the sleeping bodies and walking to where they had laid his father to rest. Fresh dirt was heaped on the six-foot hole.
He removed his hat from his head in honor of his father and kneeled before the grave. His fingers ran through the dirt.
“I’ll do you proud, Captain,” he whispered.
The silence of the night, compared to the precursor of ruckus, played tricks on his ears.
He swore he heard his father’s voice: “See to it, boy.”
He smiled and shook his head at his imagination.
“Aye, Captain,” he whispered. He patted the dirt mound and stood, returning his hat to his head.
“Those licksplitters, sleeping on the floor, or getting pickpocketed by wenches.” He chuckled under his breath, still speaking to his late father. “I’m glad you taught me well. You left me too soon, and I have so much to carry.”
He sighed, wondering how to pursue the legacy. “But I promise you, Father, I will make you proud.”
He began the long walk to Storm Rider to sleep in the luxurious captain’s bed, a melancholic whistle on his lips.
The Pirate Kings left any sleeping stragglers on Rogue’s Isle, for no one wanted such an irresponsible hand aboard their ship. The sun rose beyond the great horizon weeks later at sea. Dark, thin clouds blurred the outline of the sun.
Robert’s fingers lingered on the wheel before curling around its wooden handle at the ship’s slightest jerk. He would never tire of the open sea, despite the turbulent waves. One day, he would die on the open waters and be buried beside his father. If fate allowed, a son of his would lay him to rest. But that would require finding a woman worthy enough to bear his heir. His father had spent decades searching for such a match, and even then, the sea had taken her during a skirmish.
The Quartermaster, Frank, approached with heavy footsteps and stood beside the helm with hands on his hips. The giant man scanned the horizon with a squint. “I miss ye father,” Frank said, and spat over his shoulder so a crewman could swab it. “It’s too quiet in the mornin’s.”
Robert chuckled at his second-in-command. It was true. His father had an obnoxious way of calling the crew to show a leg in the mornings. Robert preferred a little more calm upon waking. He liked to ease into the day, if the sea allowed.
“My father never took the time to appreciate the morning sun and its shine on the waves.” He pointed to the faint glimmer of sun that touched the crests before the choppy water dispersed it. “It’s why I live on the sea.”
Frank gave him a side-eye. “Not the gold, not the booty?” Frank smirked. “Or the company of cutthroats?”
“Well,” Robert laughed. “All of those, too, matey, but there is something about waking up to the rock of a ship with the sound of waves outside the porthole.”
“Well, well—ye turnin’ poet on us, Captain?” Frank crossed his arms.
“Only enjoying the luxuries of the sea, Frank.” Robert gripped the wheel with his other hand as the currents pulled harder. “Don’t worry your pretty head about your new Captain.”
A soft clap of thunder drew the attention of those on the ships.
Frank grunted, eyeing the darkening sky. “Looks like the sea don’t favor soft mornin’s, Captain Jaymes.” He cracked his knuckles and strode toward the main deck. “Time to earn our keep.”
