Chapter 1: Marked by Mercy
Summary:
In London, a woman’s fate is decided in a courtroom where mercy and punishment intertwine. Branded by judgment yet driven by resilience, Sarah Everett begins a journey that will carry her far from the world she once knew.
Notes:
I have edited this chapter, I wasn’t paying attention to the monarchy of 1707 when I originally wrote it. I have not changed it to reflect the fact Queen Anne was on the throne at the time.
Chapter Text
Chapter One – Marked by Mercy
10 July 1707 Old Bailey, London
“Sarah Everett, otherwise called Sarah Schneider,” the Clerk of the Court began, “thou standest indicted that on the fourteenth day of March in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and seven, thou didst feloniously, wilfully, and of malice aforethought, slay and murder thy then lawful husband, Charles Everett, Officer of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. The charge laid before this court is that of Petty Treason.”
Sarah stood in the dock. She did not move, barely breathed. The tremor of her clasped hands being the only sign she had heard the words at all.
“How plead you to this indictment–guilty or not guilty?”
Her bottom lip shook as she answered, “not guilty, my lord.”
“Let the plea be entered,” the clerk said, nodding once before resuming his seat.
“Very well. The prisoner stands indicted for the crime of Petty Treason, being the murder of her lawful husband. Let the case proceed.” Mr Justice Holt declared and waved his hand, signalling to the Queen’s Counsel to proceed with their prosecution.
“My Lord, gentlemen of the jury, the Crown shall show that the prisoner, Sarah Everett, did, with malice aforethought, take the life of her husband, Charles Everett, an Officer in Her Majesty’s service. The evidence shall prove not only the act, but the intent–that she did strike him down in cold blood, and that no provocation nor excuse can be found sufficient to lessen the charge.”
He turned, gesturing toward Sarah.
“We shall call witnesses to the character of the deceased, to the nature of their union, and to the events of the night in question.”
The Crown laid out its case with clinical precision. Witnesses spoke of Charles Everett’s rank, his reputation, his service his Country. A neighbour recalled the screams. A naval lieutenant testified to the disgrace of a woman raising her hand against her husband—let alone one of Her Majesty’s officers. Then Mr Thomas Whitby, a respected churchwarden and tradesman well known in the parish, took the stand. With quiet gravity, he told the court that he had, on several occasions, witnessed Charles strike Sarah in anger, and that the bruises on her arms and face were often visible. He paused, then added in a low voice that Sarah, born to a Jewish family, had hidden her heritage from her husband out of fear for her safety and of his prejudice. The midwife, called last, described the blood, the bruises, the child lost before its time.
Through it all, Sarah stood silent in the dock, her face pale, unreadable. Only once did she flinch—when the midwife spoke of the child’s tiny limbs, already formed.
When the final witness stepped down, the courtroom held its breath. Mr Justice Holt, who had listened with the impassivity of stone, now leaned forward. His fingers steepled. His gaze, once distant, now rested on Sarah with something like curiosity. Or doubt.
“Prisoner,” he said, voice low but clear, “you have heard the charge and the evidence laid against you. What have you to say in your defence?”
“I did not mean to kill him, my lord. I meant only to live,” Sarah answered, her voice hoarse but steady.
“I struck him with the poker from the hearth–not to kill, but to stop his fists as they fell upon my belly, upon our unborn child. The pain he gave me was silenced only by the greater pain that followed, when I felt the child leave me.”
The Lord Chief Justice continued to watch the woman in the dock. She did not falter. Her voice gathered strength with every word.
“My Lord,” she said, lifting her chin, “it was the faith of my fathers that stirred his wrath. My husband beat me for what I was born into–for the blood in my veins, for the prayers I was taught to speak. I have renounced that faith. I have found redemption in God, and in His Son, Jesus Christ. I seek to walk in His light, to serve the Church, and to honour the will of Her Majesty the Queen.”
A hush settled upon the courtroom, so complete that the scratch of the clerk’s quill was loud as thunder. Mr Justice Holt regarded Sarah with a keen, searching gaze, his fingers resting lightly upon the bench as though weighing the silence itself. For a moment, no one moved. The Queen’s Counsel rustled his papers with nervous precision, eyes flickering between the judge and the accused, awaiting the next pronouncement with bated breath. Even the gallery seemed to lean forward, breaths held in anxious anticipation.
At length, the judge’s gaze did not waver. His voice, when it came, was grave and deliberate, each word measured and final.
“Mrs Everett,” the judge said, “this court, having heard the prosecution, the witnesses, and your own account, finds the charge of Petty Treason ill-applied. The facts, as presented, speak more properly to the charge of Manslaughter.”
A murmur stirred the gallery. The Queen’s Counsel rose, his wig slightly askew from the suddenness of the moment.
“My lord,” he said, voice tight, “the Crown defers to the court’s judgment in this matter. We shall proceed upon the lesser charge, though we do not concede the gravity of the act.”
He sat, lips pressed thin.
Sarah stepped forward within the dock, her hands still bound, but her voice clear.
“If it please Your Lordship, I wish to change my plea—to guilty of Manslaughter. And I do humbly claim the benefit of clergy.”
The judge inclined his head, his expression unreadable.
“So be it. This court finds you guilty of the charge of Manslaughter. The Clerk of the Court will bring forth the Holy Bible. You will be instructed to read the appointed verse aloud. Should you do so, and it be judged that you read with understanding, the benefit of the clergy shall be granted.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
“You will then be branded upon the palm of your left hand, as is the custom, to mark that you have claimed this mercy once. Should you fail to recite the verse, or should it be found that you cannot read, you shall be returned to Her Majesty’s Prison at Newgate, there to await execution at the gallows.”
The Clerk of the Court rose and stepped forward, holding the worn leather-bound Bible. He opened it to the appointed passage–the neck verse, Psalm fifty-one.
Sarah took the book in her bound hands. Her fingers quivered, but her voice did not. She read slowly; the words etched into her memory long before she had ever seen a courtroom.
“Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness…”
When she finished, the courtroom remained silent. The judge gave a single nod.
“The prisoner has read with understanding. Let the benefit of clergy be granted.”
A pause followed. Long enough for the words to settle, for the gallery to shift and murmur, for the weight of the court’s mercy to be felt. Sarah lowered the Bible with care. For the first time since standing on the dock, her hands ceased their insistent tremor. The judge gave no further word. He merely inclined his head, and the gaoler stepped forward.
Sarah was led from the courtroom through a narrow stone passage, the murmur of the gallery fading behind her. In a small chamber off the hall, the branding iron waited–glowing faintly in the coals.
The gaoler unbound her wrists, only to take her arm a moment later. The clerk stood by with his ledger. No words were spoken.
When the iron touched her palm, Sarah did not scream. Her jaw clenched, her eyes shut tight, but she made no sound. The mark would remain. A single letter–M–burned into the flesh, proof of mercy granted. And a warning to never ask for it again.
The evidence of her freedom was quickly wrapped in linen by the gaoler. The clerk made a note in the ledger: Sarah Everett, branded.
She was led from the Old Bailey back through the bowels of Newgate, the air thick with the stink of damp stone and old sweat. The trial was over, but the return to her cell felt heavier than the walk to judgment.
Though her plea had succeeded, the barrage she faced in those few exposed steps—jeers from onlookers, the hiss of whispered slurs, the weight of a hundred eyes—reminded her that while the court had granted her mercy, the world beyond its walls had not. The gossip, the stares, the shame—those would not be so easily left behind.
13 July 1707 Newgate Prison, London
The warden walked her to the gates of Newgate, where a carriage stood waiting. The coachman opened the door for her, allowing her to clamber up the small step. Careful not to put pressure on her wounded hand, still wrapped in the linen that was applied on the day of her punishment.
Her father and sister were seated on one bench. Sarah stepped in without a word, settling opposite them as the coachman shut the door with a soft thud.
She angled her body toward the window, the glass fogged by her breath, her reflection barely visible in the dim light. The carriage jolted forward, wheels grinding against the cobbles as they pulled into the London streets.
Cheapside blurred past in streaks of grey and soot. Sarah’s hands rested in her lap, one wrapped in linen, the other clenched tight around it—not for pain, but to keep it still.
Her father spoke first.
“You’ve disgraced us.”
His voice was low, clipped. Not angry—worse. Hollow.
“Our name is in every mouth from the docks to the Admiralty. The Navy has withdrawn every contract. They’ll not have their sails cut by a Jew’s daughter who murdered one of their own.”
Sarah said nothing. Her sister shifted beside him; eyes fixed on the floor.
“You think you’ve found redemption,” he went on, “but you’ve only brought ruin. You’ve turned your back on your people, your family, your God. And for what? To stand in a dock and beg for mercy from men who would see you hang?”
Still, she said nothing.
It was only when they passed the turning for Bishopsgate that Sarah looked at him.
“This isn’t the way home.”
Her father didn’t meet her gaze.
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
A pause.
“You’re being taken to Bethlem.”
Sarah blinked. “Bedlam?”
“You’re not fit to be seen. Not in our house. Not in any decent house.”
He turned back to the window, as if the matter were settled.
20 July 1707 Bethlem Royal Hospital, London
A week. That was how long Sarah had sat in the cold, damp stone cell, her ankle shackled to the wall. She was still in the same clothes, the linen around her hand frayed from the day when she left the Old Bailey.
The days in Bedlam blurred together. Shouts from patients and wardens merged into a single din–the scrape of iron, clatter of buckets, the wardens pacing their rounds. And always, the footsteps of London’s elite, drifting through the corridors to gawk at the inmates as though they were curiosities put on display for their amusement.
The jingle of keys broke through her thoughts. It was late–too late for any of the wardens to be visiting an inmate without a cause. Without menace.
She drew knees closer to her chest. The chill of the floor seeped into her bones, making her body ache, but she still managed to push herself into the corner of her cell.
The lock clunked with a dull, metallic finality, echoing off the damp stone walls. The door creaked open, a draught of stale air curling into the cell, carrying with it the lingering scent of must and old straw. She felt the chill snake around her ankles, already numbed by the cold floor beneath her stocking-covered feet.
Sarah kept her gaze fixed on the stone below, arms locked tightly about her knees, drawing herself small against the encroaching shadows. She hadn’t spoken a word since the carriage ride to Bedlam, her voice as trapped as her body. A tremor ran through her as she wondered if, should fear command it, she’d have the strength to scream at all. The silence seemed to press in, broken only by the distant shouts and the ever-present clatter echoing through the corridors.
The orderly walked until he stood in front of her. He outstretched his arm, causing her to flinch.
But it was the folded bit of paper that caught her attention as it wavered under her nose. She dragged her vision to the man’s face, searching for any hint of compassion, but found only disdain.
He looked at her in disgust, as though she was less than the moulted hay that she sat upon. Impatient, flicking his wrist with a sneer, urging her to take the note clenched between his fingers.
Sarah hesitated for a moment, heart pounding. Memories of the Old Bailey flickered in her mind—the fear, the accusations, the day she was cast out as mad. What message could possibly reach her now, in this forgotten place? For a second, she dared to hope the note might be a word from her family, a sign that someone still cared, or perhaps instructions for her fate. The uncertainty gnawed at her, a cruel companion to her isolation, as she finally reached out with trembling fingers to accept the note.
She unfolded the paper, her sisters hand catching her interest immediately:
Sarah,
We must move with haste. The man handing you this note is James Johnstone; he will be the orderly present the day after tomorrow. Once night falls, and you and the other inmates are locked up until the morn, he will come to retrieve you.
I have secured passage for us to the Canaries. From there we will make headway to the colonies.
We will leave behind Father and his twisted ways.
Listen to the instructions given by Mr Johnstone. He has been paid for his assistance; however, if caught will not take responsibility.
Mr Johnstone will inform you where to meet me.
Please keep your mind of just a little longer.
Your loving sister,
Leah
Sarah looked from the note to Mr Johnstone, the sneer still present. His gruff response to her bewildered look was the only answer that she received.
“Be ready the night after next. Once the floor has been locked down, I will return and escort you to the rear door. From there you will have to make your own way. I will provide you with further direction then.”
He did not allow her the chance to respond, let alone thank him. His heavy boots carried him back across the threshold, the slam of the door reverberating through the stone. The lock clunked back into place, its echo stirring he poor souls around her into restless mutterings.
Sarah pressed the note against her knees, her fingers vibrating. Hope and dread warred in her chest. Leah’s words were a lifeline, but the thought of trusting a man who looked at her with such disgust made her stomach twist. She imagined the corridors at night, the rear door, the streets beyond–freedom, perhaps, but also danger.
The noise of Bedlam rose again around her, shouts and rattle filling the silence he left behind. She folded the paper carefully, as though it might dissolve if handled too roughly, and tucked it beneath the frayed linen at her wrist. For the first time in days, her hear beat not only with dear, but with the faintest pulse of possibility.
22 July 1707 Bethlem Royal Hospital, London
Dusk rolled in. All day Sarah had paced here confined room as much as the iron shackle would allow, each step a measure of her impatience, each pause a reminder of her captivity. The air was heavy, the stone walls sweating with the damp of summer nightfall.
The wardens’ rounds grew quieter as the evening settled. Shouts from the other cells dwindled into mutterings, then into silence, broken only by the occasional rattle of chains. Sarah pressed her back against the wall, listening for the sound she had been promised.
The jingle of keys came at last. Her heart lurched. She crouched low, clutching the frayed linen at her wrist where Leah’s note lay hidden.
The lock turned. The door creaked open. James Johnstone slipped inside, his face shadowed, his expression as hard as before. He did not speak at first, only bent to the shackle at her ankle. The iron scraped, then gave way.
“Quickly,” he muttered. “No sound.”
Sarah staggered to her feet, the sudden absence of weight at her ankle dizzying. She followed him into the corridor, her bare feet whispering against the stone. The air smelled of straw and sweat, of stale candle smoke.
They moved past the rows of cells, where eyes glimmered in the dark–other inmates watching, some muttering, some silent. Sarah kept her gaze forward, her breath shallow.
At the rear door, Johnstone paused. He pressed a finger to his lips, then eased the bolt free. The door swung open to the night.
Cool air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of the city: smoke, horse dung, the faint tang of the Thames. For the first time in over a week, Sarah saw the sky.
Johnstone leaned close, his voice a rasp.
“Go. Keep north until you reach Moorfields. Stay to the shadows; there will be watchmen. Cross the green and follow the lane towards Bishopsgate. Just beyond the gate, you’ll see the King’s Head tavern. Your sister will be waiting inside. Do not linger on the street, go straight in.”
He stepped back, already retreating into the shadow.
Sarah hesitated only a moment, then slipped through the doorway. The night swallowed her, the city stretching wide and uncertain before her. Freedom was not yet hers–but it was close enough to taste.
Sarah kept to the shadows as Johnstone had instructed, but the way proved easier than she had feared. The night was quiet, the watchmen elsewhere, their lanterns bobbing faintly in the distance but never enough to trouble her.
She crossed Moorfields without incident; the open ground hushed beneath the fading light. The air was cool, carrying only the distant murmur of the city. Her bare feet found the packed earth of the lane, and she followed steadily towards Bishopsgate.
The gate loomed ahead, its arch stark against the sky. Beyond it, the glow of the tavern windows spilled onto the street, warm and inviting. Sarah’s heart quickened. Not from fear this time, but from the nearness of her sister.
The King’s Head stood just beyond the gate, its sign creaking gently in the night air. She paused only long enough to steady her breath, then slipped inside.
22 July 1707 The King’s Head Tavern, Bishopsgate, London
The tavern was dim, its air thick with smoke and the sour tang of spilled ale. Candles guttered in sconces along the walls, their light catting on pewter mugs and the rough faces of men hunched over their drinks. A fiddler scraped half-heartedly in the corner, his tune drowned by the croon of voices.
The door closed behind Sarah, shutting out the night. She scanned the room, searching for the one face she longed to see.
Leah sat at a small table near the hearth, her back straight, her chin lifted as though she belonged among the tavern’s patrons. But her youth betrayed her. The candlelight caught the softness of her cheeks, the nervous flicker of her eyes. She wore a plain gown, carefully mended, the stitches neat and precise–her own hand evident in every seam.
When she saw Sarah, Leah rose quickly, knocking her mug against the table. Ale sloshed over the rim, but she ignored it, rushing forward.
“Sarah,” she whispered, clutching her sister’s wrist. Her grip was firm, but the tremble of her hand gave her nerves away. “You made it.”
Sarah looked at her, astonished by how young she seemed. twenty, and yet carrying herself with the urgency of someone far older.
Leah leaned close, her voice low.
“I took the money from Father’s accounts. Enough to pay Johnstone, for a room upstairs, and enough for passage. He’ll know soon, but by then we’ll be gone.”
Her eyes shone with reckless pride, though fear lingered at the edges. She tried to steady herself, tried to look older than she was, but Sarah could see the child beneath the bravado.
For the first times since Bedlam, Sarah felt the weight of hope press against her chest.
The chamber above the tavern was small, it beams low and the air thick with the smell of smoke rising from the common room below. A single candle guttered on the table, throwing long shadows across the walls.
A knock came at the door. Leah opened it to admit a tavern maid, her arms straining with a bucket that steamed in the candlelight. She set it down beside a shallow basin, the heat curling into the room.
“Boiling water, as you asked,” the maid muttered, already retreating down the stairs.
Sarah started at the rising steam, the promise of warmth. Leah sat a bundle onto the bed: fresh linen, a gown, stockings, and shoes.
“Wash quickly,” Leah urged, her voice low but firm, but taking care to pour some of the water into the basin for her sister. “We can’t linger. In a few hours we leave for Billingsgate. The Mercy of London sails at sunrise, and we’ve paid for passage. If father learns what I’ve done before we’re aboard, it will all be for nothing.”
Sarah slipped into the clean shift her sister had brought, the linen cool against her skin. She dipped a cloth in the basin and began to wash–her arms, her neck, the grime from her shoulders and chest. She lifted the hem to scrub her legs, the warmth easing the ache from days on the stone floor.
The steam rose around her, curling into her hair, carrying away the stench of Bedlam. For the first time since her imprisonment, she felt the loosening its grip, her body reclaiming some measure of dignity.
Leah watched, arm folded, stern, but her eyes shone with relief as Sarah straightened, damp but clean, the shift clinging lightly to her frame.
“Here,” Leah said, offering the gown. “Put these on. You’ll not leave this place looking like a Bedlam’s prisoner.”
Sarah took the clothes, her throat tight. The steam, the clean linen, her sister’s presence–it was more than comfort. It was the first taste of freedom.
Once dressed, her boots pulled over her feet, she turned back to the basin of water, now starting to cool.
She removed the frayed wrap around her branded hand. It was still an angry red but did not look like infection had taken hold. She carefully dipped her hand into the basin, patting it dry with another cloth. Now she left the wound uncovered. It would allow it to heal, and she refused to feel shame for the actions that allowed her to still draw a breath.
23 July 1707 Billingsgate Wharf, London – Before Sunrise
The streets were hushed when they left the tavern, the city folded in darkness. A few watchmen’s lanterns flickered at corners, their light glancing off shuttered windows. Sarah kept her hood low, her branded hand tucked beneath her cloak, while Leah walked briskly at her side, a heavy bundle slung over her shoulder.
By the time they reached Thames Street, the air had changed. The river’s breath hung in a mist, carrying the tang of salt and tar. Ahead, Billingsgate was already stirring. Carts rattled over cobbles, barrels rolled toward the quay, and sailors’ voices rose in sharp commands.
The Mercy of London lay just beyond the wharf, her hull looming in the half-light. The tide was running out, the river pulling restless toward the sea. She was anchored off the quay, waiting for the ebb to carry her downstream.
A skiff bobbed at the water’s edge, lanterns swinging from its prow. Two oarsmen sat ready, their breath steaming in the chill. Leah shifted the bundle, the weight dragging at her arms—inside were the tools of their trades: Sarah’s sailmaker’s kit, everything but the bench too large to carry, and Leah’s own tailoring shears and linen. She had thought of everything, not only escape but survival.
Leah gripped Sarah’s arm. “We must take the boat. The tide’s turning—they’ll not wait.”
Sarah stepped down into the rocking skiff, clutching the bundle tight. The river lapped black beneath her, cold and alive. As the oars bit into the water, carrying them toward the ship, she felt the city recede behind her. Ahead, the timbers of the Mercy rose like a promise.
The sailor at the gangway eyed them as the skiff drew alongside. Leah pressed a coin into his hand, her voice steady despite her youth. “Two berths. Paid in full.”
He nodded, pocketing the coin, and gestured them aboard.
Sarah set her foot on the plank. The river surged below, the tide pulling hard. She drew a breath, the first of freedom, and crossed onto the Mercy of London, her sister’s bundle of tools the promise of a life yet to be stitched and sailed.
29 August 1707 Santa Cruz de Tenerife
The voyage south had been longer than promised. A storm in the Bay of Biscay had driven the Mercy of London off course, tearing canvas and forcing repairs at sea. Five weeks and two days passed before the volcanic peaks of Tenerife rose from the horizon, black against the dawn.
Sarah and Leah stood at the rail as the ship eased into the harbour. The air was thick with salt and citrus, the cries of gulls mingling with the shouts of sailors. Santa Cruz was alive with motion: Spanish galleons, Dutch traders, and English merchants crowded the anchorage, their flags snapping in the trade winds.
On the quay, barrels of wine and fruit rolled toward waiting carts. The smell of tar, oranges, and fish mingled in the heat. Voices in Spanish, Portuguese, and English overlapped, bargaining, cursing, calling orders.
Leah clutched the bundle of tools as they disembarked. They had little else, but these were enough to prove their worth.
For days they searched the harbour, asking after ships bound for the colonies. Captains shook their heads: their vessels were bound for Europe, Africa, or the Indies, but not the Americas. Luck seemed thin, and the sisters’ coin dwindled.
It was in a tavern by the waterfront, the air heavy with smoke and wine, that Leah caught the whisper. A sailor, drunk and loose‑tongued, spoke of a vessel taking on crew and passengers for Nassau, New Providence Island. A place of promise—or ruin—depending on who told the tale.
Sarah’s branded hand throbbed as she listened, the mark of Bedlam still raw. But Leah’s eyes gleamed with determination.
“We’ll find it,” she said. “We’ll make our way.”
The sisters stepped back into the harbour’s chaos, the Canaries behind them, Nassau ahead, and the sea between.
Chapter 2: New Threads in Nassau
Summary:
Two sisters step ashore in Nassau, a port alive with opportunity and peril. Amid the chaos of trade and taverns, they must stitch together new lives in a town where survival depends on skill, coin, and reputation.
Chapter Text
Chapter Two – New Threads in Nassau
18 October 1707 Nassau, New Providence Island
The skiff rocked low in the water as Sarah and Leah clutched the bundle between them, the salt spray dampening their cloaks. Behind, the vessel that had carried them from Tenerife lay at anchor in the bay, her sails furled, her voyage complete. Ahead, the beach of Nassau curved in a crescent of pale sand, the docks crowded with men shouting in a dozen tongues.
Ships filled the harbour, their masts bristling against the sky. Merchantmen heavy with cargo rode at anchor beside lean, fast sloops whose decks bristled with cannon. The air was thick with rum and smoke, the mingled scent of trade and plunder.
Leah’s eye darted from one vessel to the next.
“Pirates and merchants alike,” she whispered, taut with awe. “This place is no London.”
Sarah’s branded hand throbbed as she gripped the gunwale. Yet the sight of the harbour stirred something fierce in her chest. Here, at the edge of the empire, the rules were different. Survival might depend not on birth or law, but on skill–and she carried the tools of her trade.
The skiff scraped against the dock. A sailor reached down to steady them, his palm rough with rope burns but firm. Sarah’s cloak slipped as she climbed, the branded flesh of her hand catching the light. He did not recoil. His gaze lingered, but without judgment—only recognition.
“Come on then,” he said, steadying Leah after her sister. His voice was low, worn by salt and rum. “Best keep your bundle close. Dockside’s no place for the unwary.”
Sarah nodded, clutching the tools tighter. Around them the dock was a chaos of shouting men, barrels rolling, ropes creaking.
The sailor moved aside, but not before adding, “You’ll find no one here without a past. Kings, navies, creditors—we all fled something.”
Leah’s eyes widened at the words, but Sarah felt a strange steadiness settle in her chest. In London, her brand had marked her as ruined. Here, it was only another scar among many.
The man tipped his head toward the taverns that lined the waterfront. “If you’re looking for work, or passage, start there. But mind who you trust.”
Sarah gave a hoarse “thank you.” With a sharp nod, he turned back to his cart, leaving them on the hot planks of Nassau’s dock, the harbour roaring around them.
The first person—aside from her sister—to treat her like a human being, and he was most likely a pirate. A scoundrel the Crown would call savage. The kind of man who might slit your throat, take his fill, and sleep soundly after.
Sarah hauled the canvas sea bag onto her shoulder, the weight tugging at her scarred hand. She glanced back to be sure Leah was close, then stepped off the dock onto the beach. The sand clung to their boots, the heat rising in waves as they crossed toward the narrow track that climbed the hill.
Above the town spread in a jumble of timber houses and taverns, smoke curling from cookfires, voices spilling down the slope. The air carried the tang of salt and pine tar, mingled with the sharper scents of rum and roasting meat.
Leah’s gaze flickered from the bay to the streets ahead, wide with wonder. Sarah steadied her pace, the sea bag heavy but sure on her shoulder. Together they pressed towards the inn and the restless bustle of Nassau–the town where fugitives and wanderers wove their new threads.
They passed the entrance to the brothel on the right; its doorway framed with lantern light even in the day. Women scantily dressed leaning against the posts, their laughter sharp as they beckoned men from all walks of life into sanctuary with promise of amusement for a turn of coin. Sailors jostled past, some already half-drunk, other bargaining with a wink and a handful of silver.
Leah’s cheeks flushed, her eyes darting away. Sarah kept her gaze forward, the weight of the sea bag biting into her shoulder. She had no coin to spare, nor time for distraction. The inn loomed ahead on the left, its doors swinging wide to the roar of voices within.
As they entered the drunken men inside spared them a glance, mostly ignoring them once it was clear the women hadn’t stumbled in from the brothel across the way. Still, Sarah muttered a sharp, “stay close,” to her younger sister.
Although Leah had got them this far, she was too naïve and innocent to know the true cruelty of man. Sarah would shield her for as long as she could—from the hands that reached too quickly, the eyes that lingered too long, and the hunger of men who saw innocence as prey.
The inn air was thick with pipe smoke and spilled ale, the floor sticky beneath their boots. Dice clattered on tabletops, coins rang against wood, and voices rose in a chorus of tongues—English, Dutch, Spanish, and rough drawl of the sea.
Leah pressed closer, her wide eyes drinking in the chaos. Sarah adjusted the sea bag on her shoulder, scanning the room with practiced caution. Here, among fugitives and wanderers, they would need to find their place—or be swallowed whole.
Sarah reached with her spare hand to tug Leah along as she headed for the counter, where a young blonde-haired girl stood behind, pouring rum into a mug for a patron. As they approached, the girl’s eyes lifted and fell upon Sarah.
For a heartbeat she paused, the bottle hovering mid-pour. Her gaze lingered—not with the leering hunger of the men around them, but with a flicker of curiosity. Sarah met her eyes steadily, the branded hand tightening on the sea bag strap. Leah shifted uneasily at her side, but Sarah held the girl’s look, waiting to see whether it meant welcome, warning, or something else entirely.
Sarah dropped the bag at her feet, pulling her small purse of coin from the hidden pocket within her skirts. The blonde set the bottle down, wiped her hands on her apron, and stepped forward to face the two newcomers. Her expression softened, the curiosity in her eyes giving way to something more deliberate.
“I’m Eleanor Guthrie. This is my inn,” she said, voice clear above the noise. “You both look like you could use a hot meal and a drink. We’ve stew and bread, ale if you prefer—or rum, if you’d rather.”
Sarah studied her as she spoke. Eleanor carried herself like a grown woman in charge, yet the soft curve of her face and the delicacy of voice made Sarah sceptical. She was certain the girl was younger than herself, possibly even younger than Leah. Still, the keen eye and stern expression left no doubt—her confidence commanded respect from the predominantly male customers in the room.
Keeping her voice even she spoke, “Yes, please. Two stew. And two ales for my sister and me.”
Eleanor nodded before heading to tell one of the black women near the hearth their request. The woman stirred the pot with practiced ease, ladling stew into bowls while another woman hacked off thick slices from a round loaf, setting them beside the bowls.
When Eleanor returned, she grabbed two empty mugs, filled them with ale, and set them on the counter. Sarah opened her coin purse, drawing out a clipped Spanish real. Eleanor’s brows lifted faintly, but she accepted it without comment, sliding the mugs closer.
“Stew and bread will be along presently,” she said. “That’ll be a shilling’s worth, or near enough.”
Sarah placed the coin on the counter, the silver catching the lantern light. Eleanor swept it away with a practiced hand, already turning to call back toward the hearth.
Sarah nodded and moved toward a quieter corner of the inn. There was an empty table not far from the counter, its surface scarred with knife marks and sticky with old ale. Leah followed, balancing the mugs carefully before setting them down. Sarah dropped the sea bag beneath the table at her feet, the leather thumping against the floorboards.
From the hearth, one of the women carried over two bowls of stew, each with a thick hunk of bread resting against the rim. Steam rose in the smoky air, carrying the scent of salted meat and onions. Sarah stepped forward to meet her, taking the bowls with a word of thanks before setting them down between herself and Leah.
Leah began eating as soon as the bowl was in front of her, not looking up. Sarah’s eyes drifted around the room while she started to pick at the bread.
Across the tavern, she caught sight of Eleanor speaking with an older black man. They leaned in close, voices low, the man’s hand resting briefly on her arm before he parted ways with a pat. Eleanor straightened, tucking the rag into her belt, and stepped out from behind the counter. Her gaze swept the room before fixing on Sarah and Leah, and she began to make her way toward their table.
Eleanor pulled out the other chair and sat. Leah finally lifted her gaze from her stew, eyes flickering between her sister and their company.
“So,” Eleanor said evenly, “I assume neither of you have a place to stay while you’re here?”
Sarah kept silent, weighing the woman before her. But Leah, eager and unguarded, spoke first.
“Yes—we have just arrived from London. My sister and I have nowhere to stay, and no work.”
Eleanor looked at the younger of the sisters, before moving her gaze to Sarah.
“Work for women? Not much, unless you fancy spreading your legs in the brothel. And you—” her gaze pinned Sarah, “—you’d likely send the bastards running before they got their breeches down.”
Sarah’s lip curled, a retort forming, but Leah rushed in, quick and earnest.
“No, no. We can sew. More than sew. Sarah’s stitched sails fit for Her Majesty’s Navy. And me—I’ve worked as a tailor in the shop below our father’s loft, with him lending a hand when he could.”
Eleanor’s eyes flicked between the two, her mouth twisting into something between a smirk and a sneer.
“Well, that does change things—you both have a trade,” she said. “The tailor everyone used has fucked off to Port Royal—ran off with one of the whores, if you believe it. Leaves his shop empty, and sailors still need their breeches patched and coats fitted. You can take that on. There are rooms at the back of the shop—will give you somewhere to live.”
Her gaze settled on Sarah.
“As for you, there’s a sailmaker in town, but he’s half-blind and useless. Men still drag their canvas to him because there’s no one else. You’ll work alongside him. Learn the orders, prove you can do better, and when he finally keels over, the loft will be yours.”
She leaned back, voice low and sharp,
“You’ll answer to me, of course. I’ll see you get the work, and I’ll see you get paid. But don’t fuck it up—Nassau doesn’t keep the useless around.”
She jerked her chin towards their bowls.
“Eat up. When you’re done, I’ll take you to the tailor’s shop—you can leave your belongings there—and then I’ll show you the sail loft. But first, I’ll need your names.”
Sarah looked down at her bowl, using her spoon to play with her stew.
“Sarah Everett, this is my younger sister Leah Schneider.”
Sarah left it at that, but Eleanor’s eyebrow twitched at the different surnames.
“Everett and Schneider,” she repeated, her tone flat. “Funny how sisters don’t share a name. I don’t give a fuck what story’s behind it, but if anyone asks, keep it simple. Nassau’s full of bastards sniffing for weakness, and a pair of girls with mismatched names will draw questions you don’t want.”
She pushed back her chair, the legs scraping against the floorboards.
“Finish your stew. I’ll take you along when you’re done.”
Eleanor led Sarah and Leah further along the street that housed the inn and brothel. Before the road opened into the town square, she stopped at a narrow shopfront pressed tight beside the cobblers.
The tailor’s sign still hung above the door, its paint cracked and faded, the lettering half‑worn by salt air. The shutters sagged on their hinges, and the window displayed nothing, but dust and scraps of cloth left to yellow in the sun. Inside, the air smelled of old linen and damp wood, the ghost of a trade abandoned in haste. A counter stood at the front, its surface was worn smooth in places, nicked and gouged from years of measuring and cutting. Beyond it, the cramped room opened into a narrow passage leading to the back.
Eleanor shoved the door open with her shoulder, the hinges groaning.
“There,” she said, her voice sharp. “Your sister can make this her shop. Sailors still need their clothes mended, and there’s coin enough in it if she proves she can work. Rooms at the back—small, but enough to keep you off the street.”
Leah stepped inside, her eyes darting over the counter. She ran her fingers across the gouged wood, as it testing whether the place could still be made to serve. Sarah lingered near the doorway, her gaze sweeping the cramped passage toward the back rooms. She said nothing, but the set of her mouth betrayed caution.
Eleanor turned on her heel. “Come on. The loft’s further up. You’ll want to see what passes for a sailmaker in this town.”
They left their sea bag in the shop, following Eleanor up the street. The air grew thicker with the smells of Nassau—blood and brine from the butcher’s stall, the yeasty smoke of the bakery’s oven, and the sharp tang of herbs spilling from the apothecary’s doorway. Eleanor pointed each out with a flick of her hand, her tone dismissive.
“Meat’s dear, bread’s worse, and the apothecary will sell you piss in a bottle if you’re fool enough to pay for it.”
The street widened as they neared the square, the buildings here taller, built to hold goods in bulk. Eleanor stopped before a broad warehouse, its doors thrown wide to reveal stacked barrels and bales under the Guthrie mark.
“The loft’s beside here,” she said. “My father’s warehouse keeps the trade moving—rum, tobacco, canvas, whatever the captains bring in. The sailmaker works next door, so the men drag their canvas straight from the ships to him. You’ll see soon enough what passes for a loft in Nassau.”
Eleanor led them into the adjoining timber building. Inside, rolls of canvas piled against the walls, some fresh from the bolt, others ragged and salt‑stained from captured prizes. Ropes lay in heavy spirals across the floor, their fibres stiff with tar. To the right, a narrow stair climbed toward the loft.
Upstairs, the air was thick with the smell of oiled cloth and beeswax, sharpened by pitch dust ground into the beams. On a bench lay the sailmaker, belly bulging, beard grey and tangled, snoring through slack lips. An overturned bottle bled its last drops into the floorboards.
Eleanor’s lip curled. “That’s Mr. Hargreaves. He calls himself a sailmaker, but he’s more bottle than needle these days. You’ll be his partner, though you’ll carry the weight. And if you’re clever, you’ll have the loft before he drinks himself into the grave.”
Eleanor walked towards the unconscious man, nudging him hard with her foot until he came around.
Mr. Hargreaves stirred with a grunt, blinking against the dim light. His eyes were bloodshot, lids heavy, and he squinted at Eleanor as though she were some unwelcome apparition.
“Up,” Eleanor snapped. “You’ve company. This one”—she jerked her chin toward Sarah—“knows her way around canvas. She’ll be working alongside you.”
Hargreaves rubbed at his beard, scratching flakes of dried rum from the tangled grey. His voice came out hoarse, thick with sleep. “Another pair of hands, is it? Don’t matter to me. Long as the captains pay, I’ll keep the loft open.”
Eleanor’s smirk was cold. “They’ll pay because she’ll do the work you’re too drunk to finish. Try not to choke on your bottle before she takes the loft from under you.”
He gave a wheezing laugh, half‑hearted, and sank back against the bench. “Aye, let her try. Canvas don’t mend itself.”
Sarah stood stiff, the smell of oil and beeswax grounding her even as the man’s indifference set her jaw. She knew canvas, she knew rope, and she knew the weight of sails when they came off a ship. This loft could be hers—if she endured Nassau long enough to claim it.
Eleanor turned back to the sisters, rolling her eyes at the drunk sprawled on the settle.
“You’ll start tomorrow,” she said to Sarah, “take the rest of today to learn your way around Nassau.”
Sarah inclined her head, a quiet thank-you to the younger woman who held the reins of the town. Then they parted—Sarah and Leah crossing back to the tailor’s shop to stake their claim, while Eleanor strode toward her inn, already thinking of the next bargain to be struck.
Chapter 3: Stitches and Scrutiny
Summary:
In the heart of Nassau’s grind, Sarah’s hands prove their worth. Tested by strangers and measured by the weight of coin, she learns that every bargain carries risk—and every stitch is a step toward belonging.
Chapter Text
Chapter Three – Stitches and Scrutiny
19 October 1707 Nassau, New Providence Island
Sarah left Leah in the tailor shop just after sunrise, her sister already busy arranging scraps of cloth and setting their few belongings into place. The small room smelled of dust and linen, a space Leah was determined to make her own.
Outside, the air was already warming. Sarah stepped into the street with her leather pouch tied at her waist, resting against her right hip. Her sailmaker’s palm was strapped to her left hand, the hardened leather and iron plate covering the raised brand beneath. She flexed her fingers once, feeling the weight of it.
Gone were the stiff silks and stays of London society. She wore a plain linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a dark wool skirt hitched slightly to keep clear of the muck. Her shift and stockings clung beneath, practical and sweat-damp in the heat. A pair of worn leather shoes scuffed the dirt as she walked.
Her hair—sun-faded to a dull, sandy blonde—was tied back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, strands already escaping to cling to her temples. She looked like any other working woman in Nassau, save for the way she carried herself: shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes scanning the street with the wary precision of someone who had learned not to trust the world to be kind.
She turned toward the loft.
The square was stirring to life: sailors shouting over prices, barrels rolling from the Guthrie’s warehouse, the air thick with salt and smoke. Sarah kept her pace steady, the pouch bumping against her hip, the palm a constant reminder of the work ahead.
Sarah reached the loft to find Mr Hargreaves slumped against the settle, his face grey with drink and his eyes sunk deep in shadow. A length of canvas lay spread across the bench, already measured and cut, the chalk lines faint but clear. It needed only the stitching to hold.
He waved a hand at her without rising. “There it is. Do what you will. I’ve no stomach for it today.” His voice was hoarse, the words slurred. With a grunt, he pushed himself upright, staggering towards the stairs, and left her alone in the loft.
Sarah set her pouch on the bench, drew out her needles and wax, and looked the canvas edge over the iron hook to hold it taut. The smell of oil and beeswax rose as she worked, the rhythm of the needle steady against the heavy cloth. The loft was quiet save for the scrape of thread.
By midday, the silence broke. Shouts carried up from the square, men’s voices rough with laughter and command. Sarah paused, needle poised, listening as a crew hauled barrels into Guthrie’s warehouse next door. She caught fragments—rum, tobacco, canvas—before the doors slammed shut again.
Curiosity drew her to the wide opening used for hoisting canvas into the loft. She leaned against the frame, looking down into the square. A pair of crewmen were speaking with the gentleman she has seen conferring with Miss Guthrie in the inn the day before.
One of the overseers was a short, bald man, the back of his head marked with a tattoo—an eye set within a triangle. Two others wrestled with a furled sail, straining to lift it from the cart.
The last man stood with the bald overseer. He was dark-haired, bearded, and not much older than Sarah herself. A leather apron hung at his waist, but a sword and pistol were tucked into the band as if they belonged there as naturally as the tools of his trade. Something in the way he carried himself—calm, assured, watchful—caught her attention and held it longer than she meant it to.
The two other crewmen finally heaved the bundled canvas from the cart, grunting as its weight shifted against them. Eleanor’s associate gestured sharply, pointed towards the loft above. At his word, the dark-haired man moved with the crew, stepping toward the door that led into the sail loft, his presence steady and unhurried as the canvas bumped against their shoulder.
The bald overseer remained with Guthrie’s man. Sarah heard the scrape of boots on the stairwell, three sets of footsteps climbing toward her. She stepped back from the opening, pulse quickening, the loft suddenly smaller with their approach and hurried back over to her sail bench.
“Mr Hargreaves, the Walrus needs its mizzen—” The dark-haired man’s voice cut off as he reached the landing, his words trailing into silence when he saw who was waiting at the bench.
The man’s eyes fixed on her, surprise flickering across his face before settling into something unreadable. Sarah felt the weight of his silence; the loft suddenly charged with the presence of strangers. She straightened at the bench, refusing to shrink beneath his gaze.
“Hello, I am the new sailmaker. Mr Hargreaves has stepped out—I can assist.”
The other crewmen let the canvas fall heavily to the floor, then turned without a word and left, their boots echoing down the stairs.
The dark-haired man lingered, his scrutiny unbroken. He cleared his throat, voice steady but edged with curiosity as he resumed.
“Caught a swell last night—mizzen tops’l’s torn to shit. Canvas split like a whore’s hem. Needs patching fast, or we’ll be flapping about like bastards in a storm.”
Sarah met his words with a steady nod, reaching for her pouch.
“Lay it out here. I’ll see to it.”
He arched a brow, as if weighing her against the task.
“You’ve got a hand for canvas, then? Not just talk?”
Without waiting for an answer, he stepped forward and helped unroll the sail across the long bench, the heavy canvas whispering as it unfurled. Sarah caught the far edge, looping it over the bench hook with practiced ease. She pulled it taut, then set her palm against the needle. The thread slid through the wax with a sharp hiss. She drove the first stitch cleanly into the canvas, the sound of it punctuating the silence between them.
The man watched, arms folded across his chest, the pistol and sword at his belt catching the light.
“Fair enough,” he muttered. “If you can keep that mizzen from splitting its guts again, you’ll have done us more good than Hargreaves ever managed sober. Bastard’s more use piss‑drunk than he is with a needle.”
Sarah kept her eyes on the seam, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.
“Then you’ll have it back before sundown.”
The man watched her hands move, the needle biting through canvas with a sure rhythm. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more the ghost of amusement.
“Before sundown, eh? If you pull that off, you’ll have half the Walrus swearing you’re a bloody miracle. Hargreaves couldn’t stitch a straight line if you nailed his cock to the bench.”
Sarah didn’t look up, the thread sliding through with a hiss.
“Then it’s fortunate you’ve got me instead.”
For a moment he lingered, weighing her words, the loft thick with the scrape of needle and the smell of tarred canvas. Then he gave a short laugh, rough and low.
“Fair enough. Do it right, and maybe we won’t be fucked sideways in the next squall.”
He pushed off from the wall, boots heavy on the stair.
Sarah kept her focus on the seam, but she listened until the sound of him faded into the square below. Only then did she let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the loft quieter but charged, as if his presence had left something behind.
For hours Sarah bent over the canvas, the loft stiff with the smell of wax and old hemp. Her fingers burned from overuse with each pull of the needle, but she pressed on, the rhythm steady, the seam clean. Outside the light had turned amber, shadows stretching long across the square.
The stairwell groaned under heavy boots. Sarah set her needle aside as she finished the last stitch. Flexing her fingers as the men filled the doorway. The bearded one led, eyes sharp, the bald overseer close behind. Two young crewmen lingered at the threshold, restless, their boots scuffing the boards. Awaiting orders.
The dark-haired stranger’s gaze swept the sail, then her, lingering just long enough to stir her pulse. His grunt half disbelief, half approval.
“By God, you weren’t just all talk. Mizzen’s stitched clean—better than Hargreaves ever managed.”
He tapped the edge of the canvas with a calloused hand, then jerked his chin at the men behind him. “Get it down. Careful now, or you bastards’ll undo half her work before it sees daylight.”
The men started to fold the canvas for easiness to transport the sail back the their ship. Sarah stepped back, jaw tight with a watchful eye to ensure they did as instructed. They left the canvas at their feet, waiting on the two more senior members of the crew to handle the transaction and get them on their way.
Logan lingered a moment longer, arms folded, the faintest curl of a smile tugging at his beard.
“Before sundown, just like you said.”
“Well, I’m a woman of my word Mr—”
“Logan. That’ll do.”
“Very well Mr Logan, though I reckon you’re not the one I speak to about coin.”
Logan snorted and shook his head with a grin. The other man barked a laugh as well with a pat to Logan’s shoulder.
“That’d be me, ma’am. Mr Gates, the Quartermaster of the Walrus. Which makes me, by your reckoning, the man you’ll want for coin.”
Gates stepped forward, eyeing the neat seam.
“Well, that’s a sight better than I expected. Hargreaves would’ve left us with half a mizzen and twice the complaints. My fault, of course—should’ve kept him sober.”
Sarah wiped her hands, meeting his gaze with a hint of a smile on her face.
“Then I’ll expect fair coin for fair work, Quartermaster.”
Gates gave a wry smile, “and so you shall. Five shillings for the patch, ten if you’ve saved us from replacing the whole bloody thing. Consider it money well spent—cheaper than watching the Walrus drift into the harbour like a cripple.”
Logan snorted, arms folded. “Pay her proper. Last thing we need is another stitcher walking off and leaving us fucked.”
Sarah held her ground, voice steady. Coin meant survival, but every bargain carried risk. She would not let them see hesitation.
“Then ten shillings it is. You’ll have your sail, and I’ll have my coin. Seems a fair bargain.”
Gates pressed the coin into her hand, payment for the day’s labour. As they turned to leave, the two crewmen lead the way with the sail. Sarah stretched the ache from her back after hours bent over canvas. She slipped her sail palm into her leather pouch, snuffed the candles, and followed the men down the stairs.
The stairwell spat them into the square, where the air was thick with rum and tar. Sailors shouted and bodies spilled from the taverns, laughter sharp as broken glass, dice rattled in the dirt, and the smell of salt clung to every breath. Sarah kept pace, the coin heavy in her pouch, her scarred hand throbbed with every step.
From the corner of his eye Gates regarded her.
“Forgive me, I missed your name. And I’ve heard no talk of a new sailmaker among the crews.”
“Sarah. Sarah Everett. You won’t have heard—my sister and I only came ashore yesterday.”
Logan gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Two sisters, fresh off the boat, and already knee‑deep in Nassau’s grind. Christ, most folk get chewed up before they’ve found a bed. But you—” his gaze flicked back toward the loft, “—you’ve got the hands for it. That’s worth more than half the bastards drinking and pissing away their coin in the taverns and whorehouse.”
Sarah met his eyes, steady. “Then I’ll keep my hands busy and let Nassau do its worst.”
Gates clapped Logan’s shoulder, voice dry. “Enough of your sermon, man. She’s earned her coin, and she’ll earn more yet if we’ve any luck.”
They were nearing the tailor shop that she now called home. She couldn’t see her sister through the window, but she could see the flicker of candlelight coming from the back rooms.
“This is where I leave you. No doubt we’ll cross paths again, should the Walrus need her canvas mended.”
Gates gave a nod, Logan’s eyes lingered on her longer than she liked—measuring, weighing. Not lecherous, not quite respectful, but something in between. His eyes weighed her like canvas—testing for strength, searching for flaws. Sarah met it without flinching, though her pulse quickened all the same. Had she not experienced what she already had in life, she may have even felt flattered.
Sarah slipped inside and shut the door behind her, muting Nassau’s roar. The smell of rum and sweat gave way to wax and cloth, wrapping around her like a balm. The coin in her pouch was heavy, a promise and a warning both. Leah’s voice called softly from the back, steady and familiar, and for the first time that day Sarah let her shoulders ease—though she knew Nassau would demand more of her hands before long.
Chapter 4: Tides of Trust
Summary:
Sarah finds herself at a turning point, considering a new path amongst unfamiliar faces. Supported by those close to her, she steps forward to embrace the challenges and possibilities ahead, while her past and present quietly shape her journey.
Chapter Text
Chapter Four – Tides of Trust
06 November 1707 Nassau, New Providence Island
Sarah walked through the square toward the tailor’s—her new home. As she reached the shop, an older man hobbled out, a pair of mended breeches folded under his arm. He gave her a nod in greeting and held the door open for her to pass.
Inside, Leah stood behind her worktable, gathering scraps of thread and fabric in preparation for a fresh start come morning. She glanced up at the sound of footsteps but didn’t pause in her task.
“I thought we might go to Miss Guthrie’s tavern,” she said. “It shan’t do to keep ourselves apart from the rest. If we’re to stay, we’d best grow accustomed.”
Sarah hummed in reply, unbuckling her sailmaker’s pouch and placing it on the table for Leah to stow beneath the worktop.
Leah sighed but took her sister’s silence as agreement. She stepped out from behind the bench, reaching for the coat she had found and mended for herself. Slipping it over her frock, she came to stand before Sarah.
“Lead the way,” she said, the elder of the two, gesturing toward the door she’d only just entered.
Out on the stoop, Sarah took the key from Leah and turned the lock behind them, slipping it into her pocket hidden in her skirts. Best not to tempt any light-fingered passers-by while they were away.
They took the short walk down the street to the inn. Dusk was settling in, the air cooler now—though nothing like the bite of a London evening. The warmth and scent of fresh bread spilled from the open doorway, drawing them inside.
As the women entered, Eleanor spotted them at once. Catching Sarah’s eye, she lifted her mug of ale in silent greeting, a question in the tilt of her wrist. Sarah gave a small nod, raising her thumb and forefinger to signal for two. The younger blonde returned the gesture with a nod of her own and turned to pour.
Leah led the way through the crowded room towards a pair of empty chairs near the hearth. The inn was full, the noise of conversation and the clink of tankards rising above the low hum of a fiddle in the corner. Crews ashore had clearly taken refuge from the evening chill, filling the space with the scent of salt, sweat, and woodsmoke.
By chance, the spot Leah had chosen was near what Sarah assumed to be the rest of the Walrus crew. She spotted Mr Gates mid-laugh, seated beside a man with straggly grey hair that hung past his shoulders.
A bald man with a sharp grin and a scar across his eye and cheek sat nearby. Sarah knew better than to judge on appearance alone, but something about him reeked of danger. The men clustered around him didn’t seem loyal so much as wary, their laughter a little too loud, their glances a little too quick.
The rest of the crew, had they not looked so thoroughly like pirates, might have passed for gentlemen. Though rowdy, they seemed more interested in drink and company than in stirring trouble. Mr Logan himself was among them.
Leah shrugged off her coat just as Eleanor appeared with their drinks. At her approach, Sarah reached into her pocket for a coin.
“I hear you’ve both made quite the impression already,” Eleanor said, setting the mugs down with a smile. “And in only a week.”
Sarah held out a coin, which Eleanor accepted with a nod of thanks. Beside her, Leah offered a bright smile in reply, her eyes already scanning the room with quiet curiosity.
Eleanor leaned a hip against the edge of their table, her eyes flicking between the sisters with a smirk her own mug of ale in hand. “You’ve got the whole dock whispering, you know. Some say you’re spies. Others think you’re running from something. One lad swears you’re witches.”
Leah gave a light laugh, tucking a stay curl behind her ear. “Well, I reckon that’s kinder than being branded whores.”
Eleanor gave a sharp snorted. “Oh, don’t fret. That name’s well tossed about as well.”
Sarah took a sip of her ale, the rim of the mug cool against her lips. She said nothing, gaze drifting past Eleanor to the table near the hearth. Logan was there, half-turned in conversation with Gates, his expression unreadable in the flickering light. He laughed at something, the sound low and rough, and Sarah felt it settle in her chest like a stone dropped in water.
Leah glanced at her sister, then back to Eleanor. “We’re not here to cause trouble.” Was her weary response.
Eleanor raised a brow. “Trouble’s already fucking here. You’re just new to it.”
She straightened from leaning on their table, draining the last of her drink.
“Still, you’ve got grit. I’ll give you that. Just don’t mistake a man’s silence for safety. Especially not from the ones who keep their knives sharp and their pasts quiet.” She nodded toward Logan’s table, her voice low but pointed.
Sarah’s eyes didn’t leave him. “I don’t.”
Eleanor gave a curt nod and a half-smile—more warning than warmth—then turned and melted back into the crowd.
“Who do you keep looking at?” Leah’s voice pulled Sarah back, the question quiet but pointed.
Sarah blinked, her gaze returning to Leah. “No one,” she said, too quickly.
Leah didn’t press, but her eyes narrowed just enough to show she wasn’t convinced. She took a sip of her ale, then leaned in slightly, her voice low.
“He’s not the one Eleanor meant, you know.”
Sarah didn’t answer, but her eyes flicked back toward the hearth. The man with the scar—the bald one with the cruel grin—sat apart from the others, surrounded by a looser knot of men who laughed too loud and watched too closely. He looked like the sort who enjoyed making others flinch.
“The one you’re watching,” Leah went on, “with the beard—he doesn’t seem like the rest. Doesn’t throw his weight about.”
Sarah’s fingers traced the rim of her mug. “No. He doesn’t.”
Leah studied her sister a moment longer. “That can be a good thing,” she said carefully. “Not all men are like Charles. Just, be careful.”
Sarah’s lips curved, faint and unreadable but the pain in her eyes showed the wounds were still fresh.
“I always am.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the warmth of the inn pressing in around them, the fiddle’s tune winding through the din. Across the room, the man with the beard leaned in to say something to Gates, his voice too low to carry. He didn’t look their way—but Sarah watched him all the same.
Sarah’s eyes lingered on the man with the beard, but she said nothing more. Leah, sensing the end of the conversation, leaned back in her chair and turned her attention to the room.
The tavern had grown louder, the air thick with pipe smoke and the scent of spilled ale. A cheer went up near the bar as someone slammed a hand down in victory over a game of dice. The fiddle player struck up a livelier tune, and a few sailors began to stomp along in time.
From the hearth, Mr Gates rose, tankard in hand, and ambled toward the bar. As he passed the sisters’ table, he paused, his weathered face creasing into a grin.
“Well now, miss,” he said, tipping his head to Sarah. “Didn’t expect to see you out tonight.”
Sarah gave a small smile. “Thought it was time.”
Gates’s eyes shifted to Leah. “This your sister, then?”
Leah straightened a little, offering a polite nod. “Leah.”
“Gates,” he replied, with a slight bow of his head. “Pleasure.”
Behind him, Logan approached, mug in hand. He stopped beside Gates, gave Sarah a nod, then looked to Leah.
“This the one that talks then?” He asked, deadpan.
Leah blinked, then smiled. “Depends on who’s asking.”
Logan’s mouth twitched. “Fair enough.”
Gates chuckled. “This is Logan. Don’t mind him—he’s friendlier after his third drink.”
Logan took a sip. “’m on my third.”
“Ah,” Gates said. “Then we’re in trouble, ain’t we?”
Logan rolled his eyes, then cast a glance back to Sarah. “Are you finding yourself at ease here then?”
Sarah nodded. “Getting there.”
He gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, then glanced toward the far end of the room—where the bald man with the scar sat with his lackies.
“Keep your heads down around that lot,” he said. “’specially him.”
Leah followed his gaze. “The one with the scar?”
Logan nodded. “Name’s not worth knowing. Just don’t let him catch you looking.”
Sarah arched her brow. “Would you have me take that as counsel, then?”
Logan gave a shrug. “Consider it a kindness shown.”
He tipped his mug in parting and turned back toward the hearth without waiting for a reply.
Gates lingered a moment longer, giving the sisters a wink. “He’s good with folk, that one. Knows how to get on, don’t he?”
The rhetorical question was his parting response before following behind Logan.
Leah watched them both retreat, then turned to Sarah, her voice low. “You like him.”
Sarah didn’t answer, just took another sip of her ale.
Leah leaned in, her tone gentler now. “Just don’t mistake quiet for safe.”
Sarah’s gaze drifted back toward the hearth. “I won’t.”
Leah watched them go, then turned to Sarah, her voice low. “He’s not what I expected.”
Sarah didn’t answer right away. Her gaze had drifted back toward the hearth, where Logan had resumed his seat, one arm slung over the back of his chair, half-listening to Gates with that same unreadable calm.
“He’s not like the others,” Leah added.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Sarah said, her voice quiet.
“No,” Leah agreed. “But it might.”
Sarah looked down at her hands, fingers curled around the mug. The calluses along her palms caught the light—old scars, new ones forming. She flexed them once, then stilled.
“I don’t want to be seen,” she murmured. “Not like that.”
Leah softened. “You’re allowed to look, Sarah. Even if you don’t know why.”
Sarah didn’t reply. She just sat there, the noise of the tavern washing over her, the warmth of the fire brushing her cheek. She wasn’t sure what she felt when she looked at Logan—only that it wasn’t fear. And that, somehow, was more distressing than if it had been.
07 November 1707 Nassau, New Providence Island
Sarah felt groggy as she stepped into the street, the sun just beginning to rise. The town was still half-asleep—only the butcher and the baker had started their day. A few men staggered out of the brothel down the lane, sent back to their crews or homes so the women could clean up and ready themselves for the next round of trade.
She made it to the sail loft undisturbed.
For the first time since their arrival, she wasn’t wearing skirts or a frock. Her sister had salvaged a pair of breeches—short in the legs, likely once belonging to a tall child or a slight young man. She’d only needed to take in the waist. They felt strange, but oddly empowering. It was one of the first choices Sarah had made for herself in weeks. If she wanted to wear breeches or trousers, she could. And if she preferred skirts and petticoats, that was her decision too.
They made the climb to the loft easier, at least. She ascended the stairwell with practiced ease, her boots sounding softly on each step. The t’ps’l she’d been mending the day before sat folded on her bench, waiting. One last reinforcement to stitch, and it would be done—finished before the square below stirred to life.
She settled onto the bench and unfolded the sail across her lap, the canvas heavy and familiar. With her sail hook—her third hand—she anchored the cloth, keeping the tension steady as she pulled on her sailpalm and threaded the needle. She ran the thread through a block of worn beeswax, sealing the fibres against fray and sea. Then she hunched over the sail, aligning the reinforced panel and tracing the line where the new stitching would go—tight, even, and strong enough to hold against the next squall.
She forced the needle through the canvas, demanding it to comply. The sound of it puncturing the cloth, the swish of the thread pulling through, and the clink of the needle against her sailpalm lulled her with its steady, continuous rhythm. The repetitive motions—ones she could do in her sleep—let her mind drift, unbidden, to the night before in Eleanor’s inn.
Leah’s concern, and her quiet advice not to let the past poison the future, had struck something deep. It meant more than Sarah could say. But it hadn’t silenced the guilt. Or the disgust.
She was a widow by her own hand. A woman who had killed her husband—not in rage, but in desperation. After the bruises. After the broken ribs. After the child he beat out of her when he learned the truth of her faith. She had survived, but survival came with a brand on her thumb and a weight in her chest that no verdict could lift.
And now, she found herself feeling something—something more than friendship—for another man. A pirate, no less. What right did she have to want anything from anyone?
It stirred a deeper turmoil. One uglier. One harder to name. She was used goods. No use to any man. Even if the thought of another man touching her crossed her mind, it would only end in disappointment. She had struggled to fall pregnant even before the worst of it—months of silence, of waiting, of hoping. And when it had finally happened, he had beaten the child out of her.
The loss had left more than grief. It had left damage. The doctor hadn’t said it outright. They rarely did. But his meaning had been clear enough. He’d spoken of “injury to the womb,” of “internal scarring,” and how “some vessels, once broken, do not mend as they ought.” He’d warned her not to expect another quickening. Not ever. Her courses had never been regular, he’d noted, and now they might cease altogether. “The matrix,” he’d called it. “Too much damage done.”
She would never carry again.
Sarah’s courses had still not returned. She had thought that by the time they left the Canaries and took passage to Nassau, her body might have righted itself. But with each month that passed, the realisation settled deeper into her bones.
Part of her had accepted it. Or thought she had. That was before Logan.
Three conversations. That was all. But one had been enough to stir something in her—the Sarah who had been buried beneath ruin and rubble had lifted her head, blinking into the light. A flicker of warmth. A breath of something like hope.
And then came the shadow of Charles Everett. The devastation he had wrought still clung to her, a stain she could not scrub away. That brief glimmer had dulled beneath its weight.
She was drawn from her unrest by the slow, deliberate drag of boots on the stair. Expecting the sodden shuffle of Mr Hargreves, she looked up—only to find herself staring into the severe, time-worn face of a man she had not seen in years.
“Mrs Everett,” he said, his voice low and clipped, like a blade drawn in shadow.
“Lieutenant McGraw,” she replied, her tone measured, her fingers steady as she slid her needle through the canvas, anchoring it lest it vanish beneath her trembling hands.
He drew a breath through his teeth, sharp and quiet. “I’ve not borne that name in some years. You may call me Captain Flint.”
Sarah blinked. Her jaw slackened. The needle paused mid-stitch. Her thoughts, once mired in grief and guilt, now scattered in a dozen directions—none of them safe.
She swallowed hard. “My apologies, Captain.” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “What service might I render you?”
“Miss Guthrie spoke of a new sailmaker in town,” he said. “When I heard the name—particularly that it belonged to a woman—I came to see for myself whether it was truly you. I also understand your sister, Miss Schneider, has taken up work as our new tailor.”
He stepped further into the loft, his gaze sharp, his tone sharpening further. “Let me be plain. It is not curiosity that brings me here, but caution. I must be assured that neither the Admiralty nor the Crown have followed you to Nassau.”
There was a glint in his eye—cold, calculating, and not without menace. Sarah had never spoken ill of the younger Lieutenant McGraw. He had been quiet, composed, and—unlike most men in uniform—never cruel. But her father had once warned her of the fury that simmered beneath that calm exterior. A beast, he’d called it. A thing with teeth.
She had understood that. She had lived with such a beast. She had become one herself.
But to now find herself the object of that simmering suspicion—the cause of that dangerous temper—sent a cold panic crawling up her spine.
“I understand your concerns, Captain.” She drew herself upright, spine straightening with effort. “But I can assure you—I have brought neither England nor her Navy to Nassau. I, too, have fled London. I am no longer welcome there.”
With deliberate calm, she loosened the sailpalm from her left hand and turned it over, palm up, revealing the brand that marred her skin. The flesh was still puckered, though the angry red had begun to fade to a weary pink.
His eyes dropped to the mark, then rose to meet hers. Something shifted in his expression—recognition, perhaps, or understanding. A flicker of something less guarded.
She saw it then: the moment he believed her. The moment he knew she had no more desire to be found by the Empire than he did.
His acceptance came with a singular nod. She felt her spine ease, the sweat receding from her palm. With careful fingers, she slipped the sailpalm back onto her hand, returning to the threaded needle as though it might anchor her.
“Captain,” she said, her voice unsteady, “might I enquire after Lady Hamilton? She fled England around the same time as you. I trust she made passage with you?”
The question drew a flash from him—an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his eye, as though weighing the intent behind her words.
He cleared his throat. “You may. Though she goes now by the name Mrs Barlow. She resides further inland, well away from town. It is unlikely you’ll cross paths. I must ask that you speak of this to no one. Our names, our pasts—they are not for Nassau’s ears.”
Sarah drew back, a spark of surprise crossing her face. That he would think her the sort to gossip about such things stung more than she expected.
“I can assure you, Captain,” she said, her tone cool but steady, “that you and Mrs Barlow are quite safe from me. I trust I may expect the same confidence in return?”
“Certainly, Mrs Everett.”
“Sarah,” she corrected gently. “Please—call me Sarah. I may not have shed that bastard’s name, but that does not mean I wish to carry it.”
“Very well, Sarah.” He inclined his head, and something in his posture eased. “I confess, I’ve another motive for calling on you. As you may know, I captain the Walrus. I believe my quartermaster, Mr Gates, has already brought you one of our sails for repair.”
She nodded, curiosity beginning to take root.
“Well then,” he continued, “I’ve a proposition. As free as Nassau may claim to be, there remains the ever-present threat of England—or Spain—returning to sack the island once more. Should that day come, your sister would likely be safe. She is no fugitive. No wanted woman. But you…” He let the words hang, heavy with implication.
Dread began to stir in her chest. It was a line of thought she had avoided, unwilling to dampen Leah’s hopeful belief that they were, at last, safe.
“The Walrus,” he went on, “has earned its place as the finest earner in this port. And we intend to remain so. That means the ship must be kept in prime condition—always.”
“Begging your pardon, Captain,” she said, her brow furrowing, “but what has that to do with me—or with my sister’s safety?”
Flint’s gaze sharpened. “Well, Sarah, I propose you take on a more active role. Join the crew. Serve as our sailmaker.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Closing it again, she wet her lips and tried once more.
“Captain, I appreciate the offer. Truly. But I am a woman. I am not so naïve as to think I’d be welcome aboard—whether seen as a bad omen or a temptation.”
“I understand your concern,” he said, his tone even. “But I can assure you—my crew is not like most. We are, in some respects, more forward-thinking than the average pack of sea dogs. I would not insult you with false comfort, nor lie to lower your guard. There will be dissent. The Quartermaster may well call for a vote. But I believe, firmly, that you would find enough support among the men. You would not be merely tolerated, Sarah. You would be valued—as an asset.”
Valued. An asset.
Sarah thought the words over. The man truly did live up to the legend—that he could sing any tune and you would dance. He knew precisely what to say to get his way. And yet, even knowing that his tongue was as silver as it was sharp—sharp enough to make the devil himself bow—the temptation stirred within her all the same. The urge to be part of something greater, something with purpose, was as sweet and dangerous as the apple had been to Eve.
“Captain,” she said at last, “I am not declining the offer. But I wish to speak with my sister first.”
“I understand,” he replied. “My crew and I are camped on the beach. I would prefer your answer before sunrise.”
He paused, then added, “We intend to set sail at high noon. I would rather you were aboard—vote or no—before we weigh anchor.”
Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel and descended the stairwell, his boots thudding against the wood like a drumbeat fading into silence.
Leah had her hands braced on the workbench, leaning heavily as her elder sister sat before her.
“When he says ‘join his crew,’ does that mean join as a pirate? To be like them?”
Sarah let out a sharp breath, exasperated.
“Yes, Leah. I truly don’t know what part of this you’re struggling to grasp. Yes, I would be the sailmaker aboard his ship. Yes, I would be counted among the crew. Yes, I would be a pirate.”
Leah shook her head slowly, her brow furrowed. She bit her lower lip, hesitating, then spoke words that caught Sarah entirely off guard.
“It’s all rather exciting, isn’t it? Sailing with pirates. It’s one thing to work here, on land, but aboard a ship—working with the crew, seeing the world—it sounds exhilarating.”
Dumbstruck, Sarah struggled to recover.
“Exhilarating? Leah, it’s fucking dangerous!”
Leah raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Well, see—now you’re already talking like a pirate.”
A choked laugh escaped Sarah’s throat, half in disbelief, half in surrender.
“Yes, I suppose I am. But what I mean is—it’s not some grand adventure. It’s a deadly trade, with a survival rate so low it might as well be a death sentence. If something were to happen to me, what would become of you?”
Leah’s expression softened. Her hands loosened their grip on the bench. The realisation settled in her eyes—Sarah’s fear wasn’t for herself. It was for her. For what might happen if she never came home.
“Please don’t worry for me. Just this once, I want you to be selfish. Make this decision for you, and you alone. Whatever you choose, I will support you. You’ll always have a home to return to—with me.
“I’ll be all right while you’re away. And I know, by sheer force of will if nothing else, you’ll survive. If it brings you any comfort, we can speak with Miss Guthrie. I’m certain she’ll see to it that I remain safe and working while you’re at sea.”
Sarah’s shoulders folded inward beneath the weight of it all—the decision she had to make, and the quiet, aching knowledge that Leah would be all right without her.
She rose from her seat, her voice low. “I need to think. I’ll be in my room.”
But the truth was, the decision had already been made. She had made it the moment Captain James Flint spoke the words.
What remained now was not choice, but preparation.
She had a seabag to pack.
Sarah and Leah walked as the last of the sunlight disappeared. The former had her seabag slung over one shoulder, her scarred hand gripping the strap tightly. The brothel and the inn were the only establishments still aglow, their lanterns lit to entice passing clientele into their warm, raucous interiors.
They were bound for Eleanor first. After that, Sarah would make her way to the beach to give Captain Flint her answer.
When they stepped into the inn, it was rowdier than the night before. They had arrived later, and more drink had found its way down the throats of the crews returned to shore. Laughter and shouting echoed off the walls, the air thick with smoke and salt.
They spotted the young blonde emerging from her office and intercepted her as she made her way toward the kitchens.
“What a surprise,” Eleanor chirped. “I didn’t expect to see either of you so soon.” Her eyes dropped to the heavy seabag still slung over Sarah’s shoulder. “Are you going somewhere?” she asked, her tone sharpening.
It was Leah who answered.
“I’m staying put. And I suppose Sarah is as well—but she’s been given an offer. Captain Flint’s asked her to be the sailmaker aboard the Walrus.”
The line between Eleanor’s brows eased. A flicker of surprise passed over her face.
“Well then. Congratulations. I take it you’re heading there now?”
Sarah finally spoke.
“Yes. But first, we wished to speak with you.” She glanced at Leah, then back to Eleanor. “I know I’ve no right to ask, not after all you’ve already done for us. But I can’t leave without a bit of reassurance.”
Eleanor’s brow arched, her eyes narrowing.
“Well, spit it out then.”
Sarah bit her tongue, swallowing the retort that rose instinctively. She took a breath and spoke plainly.
“Eleanor, would you mind keeping an eye on Leah while I’m at sea? She can look after herself, but the thought of her living alone, it worries me.”
Eleanor’s expression softened. She saw it now—this wasn’t a demand, but a plea born of love.
“Fucking hell, Sarah. I thought you were about to ask for a loan.” She gave a short laugh. “Of course. Leah will be safe and sound until you return. You have my word.”
Sarah surprised them all by reaching out and giving Eleanor’s arm a grateful squeeze.
Leah turned to her sister, offering a closed-lipped smile before wrapping her arms around her waist. Sarah returned the embrace, one arm around her shoulders.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” she murmured. “But the moment I’m back on dry land, I’ll come home.”
Leah nodded and gave her a gentle shove toward the door.
Sarah offered one last nod, one last wave, then stepped back out into the night.
Sarah trailed onto the beach, her boots sinking slightly into the cool sand. She hadn’t set foot here since the day they’d first arrived in Nassau. Now, the only light guiding her path came from the scattered fires dotting the shoreline, each one surrounded by clusters of men drinking, gambling, or dozing in the flickering glow.
She drew a few glances as she passed—some curious, others more appraising, wondering if she was there to join them in the fuck tents pitched just beyond the firelight.
A long, straggly-haired man stepped into her path. She recognised him from the night before, speaking with Gates.
“Excuse me,” she said, steadying her voice. “Pardon me—I’m looking for Captain Flint. Could you point me in his direction?”
The man gave her a once-over in the dim light, his expression unreadable.
“You the new sailmaker?”
“Well, I suppose I will be,” she replied, a little breathless. “I’m on my way to tell the captain I accept his offer.”
He gave a grunt of approval. “Name’s Randall. Bosun for the Walrus. He’s straight down and off to the left—you’ll see the crew and our colours flyin’. I’m off to the whorehouse to get me cock wet. Be back before the watch change.”
Sarah blinked, watching the crude man saunter off up the hill.
Well, she thought, at least someone’s getting their jollies.
She adjusted the weight of her seabag and followed his directions. Soon, she spotted the familiar faces of the Walrus crew gathered around a fire. Among them was Mr Gates, who rose from his seat as she approached, brushing sand from his coat and stepping forward to meet her.
“Mrs Everett, I’m glad to see you,” Gates said in greeting.
“Just Sarah will do,” she replied. “I’d prefer it—and I don’t imagine anyone will mistake me for another member of the crew.”
“Understood.” He gave a small nod. “Our mutual friend mentioned your little chat earlier, and judging by that seabag, I take it you’ve accepted the offer.”
Sarah nodded once.
Gates gestured with an open hand toward a tent set off to the side, its canvas glowing faintly with the flicker of candlelight from within.
She stepped through the flaps.
Inside, Captain Flint sat behind a large, ornate desk, leaning back in his chair with one elbow resting on the arm, fingers absently scratching at his beard. He paused mid-motion as she entered, his eyes narrowing as he studied the woman standing before him.
“Sarah, thank you for joining us,” Flint said.
“Thank you,” she replied. “I’ve spoken with my sister and have agreed to accept your offer—if it’s still available.”
“It is,” he said, sitting upright in his chair. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and folding his hands beneath his chin. His gaze shifted to his Quartermaster. “Mr. Gates, I trust you’ve spoken with the crew. Have they decided whether this is a matter they wish to vote on?”
“Aye, Captain, I have,” Gates replied. “Most of the crew don’t see the need for a vote. But they do want clarity on her share of any prizes before she signs the articles.”
I’d like to know that too, Sarah thought, though she didn’t voice it aloud.
“I’d say she gets one full share,” Flint said, sitting forward. “Same as any other skilled man aboard this ship. Are you in agreement, Mr. Gates?”
“Aye, I’d say so.” Gates turned to her with a small smile. “What say you, Sarah? Do you agree—and are you willing to sign the articles?”
“One share suits me well enough.” Sarah returned the smile.
“That settles it, then,” Gates said. “Seeing as you’ve brought your belongings, we’ll get you camped here with the rest of the crew. The articles are due to be re-signed in the morning—we’ll see you added then.”
He gave her a nod, then turned to Flint in affirmation. “I’ll see to it.”
Flint offered no more than a grunt of acknowledgment, already reaching for the bottle beside him.
Sarah exhaled, the weight of the moment settling in her chest. It was done. She was in.
Gates escorted her back out to the rest of the crew, returning to the fire. Sarah spotted Logan at once, seated on a crate, his broad frame hunched forward as he spoke with a shorter, bald man whose neck bore a faded northern star tattoo.
“Logan,” Gates called over the din, nodding toward the bearded man. Logan glanced up, his gaze shifting to Sarah, weighing her with a ghost of recognition.
“Muldoon,” Gates added, addressing the bald man. “This is Sarah. She’ll be bunking with you both tonight in the armourer’s tent until we get her properly settled.”
“Alright,” the Welshman—Muldoon—replied, his voice rough but not unkind. “We’re headin’ to our kip soon anyway.”
“Good.” Gates gave Sarah a firm pat on the shoulder, then turned and disappeared into the shadows.
“Grab a seat with us, then,” Muldoon said, gesturing to the crate beside him. “We’re just finishin’ off our grub, then it’s off to sleep. Gates explain much to you, then?”
She perched on the crate beside them.
“Not really, told me that I’d get one share as the sailmaker and I’d sign the articles in the morning with the rest.”
Muldoon nodded, tearing off a chunk of bread and chewing like he hadn’t tasted food in days. Logan didn’t bother waiting to swallow before chiming in.
“Right then. Both watches eat at six bells—same is given to everyone, even Flint and Gates. But us lot—Muldoon’s the gunner, and I keep the fuckin’ weapons from fallin’ apart—we don’t stand regular night watch.”
He gave Sarah a look, half warning, half grin.
“Don’t mean we’re off the hook, mind. We work when there’s light—fixin’ shit, loading powder, makin’ sure the ship don’t blow itself to bits. If something kicks off in the dark, or Randall’s too pissed to stand, we get dragged in.”
Muldoon snorted. “Which is most nights.”
Logan jabbed a thumb at him. “Exactly. So yeah, you won’t be on deck at fuck-knows o’clock unless something’s gone sideways. But don’t think you’re gettin’ a holiday either. You’ll be up with the sun, same as the rest of us poor bastards.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Sounds delightful.”
Logan smirked. “Welcome to the Walrus.”
Both men polished off the rest of their food, rising and handing their plates to the younger lad beside the pot of awful-smelling stew. Sarah tried not to let the curl of disgust show on her face as she followed them toward what she assumed was the armourer’s tent.
Muldoon ducked under the flap without ceremony. Logan held it open for her, letting her step in first before following behind.
The inside was simple—canvas spread over the sand, two mounds of blankets, furs, and linen piled at the back. Muldoon threw himself down on one, kicking off his boots with a grunt.
“Keep your bag close,” Logan said. “We might be crew, but you can’t trust half that lot not to nick your shit. For tonight, you’ll need to share with one of us. I’d give you mine and bunk with him, but I don’t trust the bastard not to get handsy in the night.”
“Fuck off, Logan,” Muldoon shot back without missing a beat. “I might like cock, but we’ve already established yours won’t be anywhere near mine. I know where you’ve been.”
Sarah’s eyebrows lifted. She knew plenty of men turned to piracy to escape the noose for sodomy, but she hadn’t expected them to be so open about it. Then again, maybe it was just how they were with each other—mates who’d seen too much to bother with shame.
“Feel like with that revelation, I should probably share with Muldoon, don’t you think?” she said dryly.
That earned a short, throaty laugh from the smaller man already making himself comfortable. Logan gave her a sharp-toothed grin.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve already paid my visit to the whores up the hill.”
It was a throwaway line—the kind of jab she’d expect from him—but it still landed harder than she liked. Maybe Leah had been wrong. Maybe Logan wasn’t so different after all. The thought twisted in her gut, and she hated that it bothered her. He could do as he pleased. He was a free man. If he wanted to bury himself in some whore, that was his right.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Good to know. Still think I’ll sleep beside our friend here.”
She dropped her bag between the two makeshift beds. Muldoon shifted over towards the cloth the wall, giving her space. She sat down, back straight, trying not to think too much about the warmth of Logan’s gaze still lingering on her.
Ignoring them both, she lay on her side, facing the other mound of fabric. She battered the bedding into shape, trying to make it comfortable, but gave up and tucked her arm beneath her head instead.
Behind her, she heard the crunch of Logan’s boots as he moved about the tent. The light dimmed as he dampened the lanterns, one by one, until only the flicker of firelight remained—spilling through the gaps between canvas and posts, casting long shadows across the sand.
He came back into view as he dropped onto his bedding. Following Muldoon’s lead, he kicked off his boots, then lay back with one arm tucked behind his head and the other resting across his belly.
She watched him for a moment. As if sensing it, his eyes flicked toward her.
Not wanting to be caught staring, she shut her eyes. The steady rhythm of Muldoon’s breathing behind her made it clear he was already dozing off. She focused on that sound, let it lull her, tried not to think about the dark-haired, sharp-tongued man lying less than a yard away.
Chapter 5: New Allegiances
Summary:
Sarah officially joins the crew of the Walrus, navigating new alliances and the unspoken tensions of shipboard life. As she takes up her duties and finds her place among the men, moments of trust, vulnerability, and camaraderie begin to surface. Yet, beneath the routine, questions about identity and belonging linger, quietly shaping her journey.
Chapter Text
Chapter Five – New Allegiances
08 November 1707 Nassau, New Providence Island
The sun beat down on the backs of the crew as they gathered on the main deck of the Walrus, sweat glistening on weathered skin and salt-stiff shirts. Mr. Gates stood at the centre, reading the Articles aloud in a voice that carried over the creak of rigging and the distant cry of gulls. Behind him, Captain Flint loomed silent and still, with Randall at his side, eyes darting like a rat sniffing for danger.
The rest of the crew fanned out across the deck and the quarterdeck above, leaning on railings, perched on barrels, or standing shoulder to shoulder in the sun. She counted sixty men—give or take—and only a handful whose names she knew. The rest were strangers with knives at their belts and suspicion in their eyes.
“As per the Articles, outlined and agreed upon by every man—and now woman—aboard this crew:
Shares to prizes shall be thus: the Captain of this vessel shall receive two shares; the Quartermaster, one and a half; the Boatswain, one and a quarter; the Ship Master and Surgeon, one and a half shares apiece; the Carpenter and Gunner, likewise, one and a half shares each.
Skilled seamen, such as the Sailmaker and Armourer, shall be granted one full share. The Cook aboard this ship shall receive one share. All Able Seamen, including mates to the Carpenter and Gunner, shall also receive one share.
Greenhands and Landsmen shall receive one half-share; apprentices, a quarter.”
Gates paused, eyes sweeping the deck, gauging for any flicker of defiance.
“Upon this ship, whilst in battle, the Captain’s word is law. Any dissent in such times shall be deemed treason—against the Captain, and against the crew.” He continued, voice steady. “Those who commit such acts shall face punishment at the discretion of the Quartermaster.
"No gambling or wagering aboard this ship. Should any crew be found partaking—or should any conflict arise from such—each man involved shall receive ten lashes across the back.”
Gates cleared his throat. “Any crew, inclusive of the Captain, Quartermaster, and Boatswain, found guilty of thievery shall be punished by death; the same too for a false accusation of such. All have the right to defence and to a fair trial by the Quartermaster or next senior member of the crew. Or the accused and accuser may fight by sword until one be dead.
"No blood shall be drawn aboard. Disputes to be settled ashore, with blades or pistols, under the Quartermaster’s eye.
"No flame nor lantern to be lit below decks after the bell for night-watch, save by order of the Quartermaster or Boatswain.
"All crew shall maintain their arms in good order. Any man found with rusted blade or fouled musket shall forfeit a day’s ration.
"All crew hail the right to call a vote for the banishment or punishment of any man who has knowingly and wilfully deceived the crew for personal gain.
"Any man who deserts the ship or crew shall be deemed traitor and punished by death or marooning, as the crew shall decide.
"Each man aboard shall have a voice in matters of course, prize, and command—save in battle, when the Captain’s word is law.
"Any man wounded in service shall receive compensation from the common fund, as judged fair by the Quartermaster and crew.
"No woman shall be taken aboard save by consent of the crew and with her own will declared, including being part of the crew. Any man who lays hand upon her without cause shall be flogged or cast overboard.”
All eyes fell on Sarah for a moment. Her jaw tightened.
“In times of dead calm, storm, or scarcity—when the ship be becalmed or provisions run low—the Quartermaster shall have authority to reduce rations of food and water, as deemed necessary for the survival of the crew. Any man found hoarding or stealing from the stores shall be punished at the discretion of the Quartermaster and crew.”
With finality, Gates laid the page upon the small table that had been brought from the Captain’s cabin, a quill and ink waiting for the crew.
“Having read these Articles aloud, all those who sign do so in agreement to follow the code. Those of you unable to read or write may sign best to your ability.”
Sarah was quietly impressed by the orderliness with which the crew let Mr Gates speak, and by the queue they formed—rough men, sunburnt and scarred, lining up one by one to mark their names in ink or scratch an X with a calloused thumb. There was no jostling, no muttering. Just the creak of the ship and the steady shuffle of boots on deck.
She stood behind Muldoon but in front of Logan. When the former reached the table, he signed his name in full—David Muldoon. He returned the quill to the ink for her to take next.
Lifting the quill with her left hand, there came a gruff mumble of “devil’s hand” from somewhere among the crowd. She raised her head to look, but a sharp “Oi!” from Randall silenced whoever had spoken.
She returned to the task at hand, but hesitated.
“Everything in order, Sarah?” came the question from the older Quartermaster.
“Yes. I’m just unsure how best to sign,” she murmured.
Making her decision before doubt could settle—and before regret could take root—she signed:
Sarah Schneider.
“A smart choice, Ms Schneider,” the stoic Captain remarked. He must have stepped forward at her hesitation. Others would assume the comment referred to her decision to sign at all. But when she caught his eye, she knew better.
It was about the name.
She had dropped her husband’s—that name. The bastard was no longer here, and if, by misfortune, the Articles ever found their way into English hands, it might spare her from the Navy’s notice. There were still men in uniform who knew her by her first husband’s name—and not all of them would be content to let her vanish.
She set the quill down and stepped aside, moving to stand beside Muldoon. Together, they watched as the rough armourer stepped forward and signed—Christopher Logan—without hesitation, without flourish, without a second thought.
He moved towards the pair, jerking his head to indicate they should shift. They took the steep ladder down into the gun deck, where those who had already signed were beginning to congregate. Muldoon drifted off to inspect one of the guns; Logan dropped onto a pair of sea chests with a grunt.
He eyed her, suspicion sharp in his gaze.
“You get married between now and the last I saw you, then?” There was a bite in his voice she hadn’t expected.
She narrowed her eye. “Beg your pardon?”
“Schneider,” he said, dragging the name out like it tasted foul. “Last time I spoke to you, you were an Everett.”
She crossed her arms—whether in defiance or defence, she didn’t know herself—as she stared him down.
“What is it to you if I am married or not? Last time we spoke, you made it quite clear you preferred a quick fuck with the easier sort on land.”
Shit, she thought, the words still hanging in the air. She knew full well she sounded like a scorned wife rather than a crewmate.
Muldoon looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot, while Logan’s sneer sharpened as he opened his mouth to retort.
“Right, Sarah,” came Randall’s voice, cutting through the moment like a cleaver. “I’ll show you the sail room, and we can get your bench aboard ’n’ you settled.”
He staggered down the ladder, boots thudding on the rungs, either unaware of the tension or choosing to ignore it entirely. Without checking to see if she followed, he hobbled along to the hatch at the forward end of the gun deck. The hatch was already open; he made his descent, Sarah following close behind.
It was a cramped space. To one side of the deck were extra barrels and crates of supplies, along with sea chests where they’d run out of room on the berth deck. The starboard side held bundles of canvas—some new, some worn soft with use. Spare, already-rigged sails were mounted above. Sarah could stand upright with ease, but Randall had to stoop slightly to avoid the low rafters and hanging canvas.
“Orlop deck, for you to use,” he said, gesturing around. “Sails are priority—the rest’s non-essentials and crew belongings. We keep the hatch locked to prevent theft or sabotage. Never know what sort you’ll pick up at port—or after a battle.”
He scratched at his beard. “Quartermaster keeps the key, but he’ll open and lock up for you. We’ll put your bench directly above, up on deck. Give you the best light ’n’ space you’ll need.”
He turned to face her. “’m sure Logan and Muldoon gave you an insight of what’s expected on this ship. There’s no idle hands. For now, the sails are sound—you can make yourself familiar with what we’ve got and speak to Gates about anythin’ you need.”
He gestured around the cramped orlop. “We’ll need you for more than just canvas and rig. Crew’s berths and clothing get wrecked in battle and with work—patchin’ hammocks, mendin’ coats, stitchin’ boots if it comes to it. Logan might need the occasional cartridge bag or sling stitched up. Carpenter’ll want canvas for sealing leaks or coverin’ hatches. Gunner’ll need tampions, powder bags, and gun covers. Even the cook’ll come beggin’ for sacks or windbreaks when the galley’s actin’ up.”
He gave a dry chuckle. “You’ll be surprised how many things need stitchin’ when you’re floatin’ in the middle of nowhere with nothin’ but salt and splinters.”
He nodded toward the bundles of canvas. “That’s your domain now. Keep it in order, and you’ll find yourself well respected.”
She nodded in return. “Thank you, Randall. I’m happy to go where I’m needed.”
“Just like I thought, lass. Not often we get someone who isn’t a lazy bastard.” He gave a half-smile, then sobered. “Be mindful of that lot, though. Some of them out there don’t give a fuck about the Articles. You earn the respect of the majority of the men, and you’ll be one of ours in no time.”
He took hold of the ladder. “I’ll be up on deck, makin’ sure they don’t fuck up the riggin’. We’ll be settin’ sail soon. Once you’re done in here, let Gates know—he’ll help you find a bunk as well.”
The Walrus had not long cleared the bay, her sails full and taut with the steady breath of the open sea. The creak of timbers and the groan of rigging filled the air, mingling with the slap of waves against the hull and the distant calls of gulls fading behind them.
Sarah climbed up from the orlop, her hands still smelling of tar and canvas, her shoulders aching from stooping and sorting. The sunlight hit her like a slap—warm, bright, and blinding after the dim belly of the ship. She blinked against it, pausing a moment to let her eyes adjust.
The deck was alive with motion. Men hauled lines and shouted to one another, boots thudding on the planks as the ship leaned into the wind. Randall was up by the mainmast, barking at a pair of younger crewmen who were making a mess of the topsail clewlines. He caught her eye briefly and gave a nod—gruff, but approving.
She scanned the deck for Gates.
He wasn’t at the helm, nor by the quarterdeck rail. A few of the crew glanced her way—some with curiosity, others with indifference. She ignored them, stepping lightly across the deck, ducking a swinging line as she made her way aft.
By the time she reached the quarterdeck, he’d moved—now standing near the binnacle, speaking with the helmsman in low tones. The wind tugged at his coat and scattered his words, but he turned as she approached, one brow lifting.
“All settled in, then?” he asked, voice raised over the wind.
“Yes, I believe so,” she replied, inclining her head. “When we return to Nassau, I’ll need all the canvas either brought up on deck or laid out ashore. It’s a bloody mess down there—scraps mixed in with pre-cut sails. I need it sorted so I know I’ve got a spare for every mast and rig. But we’ll get by for now.”
“Very good. Come on, I’ll show you where you can get your rest.” He gave her arm a brief pat before turning toward the ladder, leading the way down to the berth deck.
Below, men not currently on the afternoon watch were setting up the mess tables—simple planks and trestles that had been stowed against the bulkheads.
“We’re not strict like the navy,” he said over his shoulder. “Your skilled and laymen mess together. We’re one crew. After six bells, once everyone’s eaten, we’ll start hanging the hammocks. I’m not too fussy about where the men sleep—but with you, I think I’m goin’ to have to be.”
“I’m starting to get worried—first Randall, now you.” Sarah tried to keep her tone light, but her palms were already damp. One man in her past had taught her to be wary, and the warning bells were hard to silence.
“Not tryin' to frighten you, Sarah. Just bein' honest. End of the day, the crew’s made of men—and weeks at sea, well, some of ’em start listening to their baser urges, whether they should or not. I’d sleep easier knowin’ you were bunked near men I trust to keep their cocks in their breeches.”
She gave him a closed-lipped smile, her hands curling into fists to hide the sweat and the tremor.
They moved aft along the berth deck, the air thickening with the scent of salt pork and woodsmoke as they neared the galley and stores. Muldoon stood there, speaking with a tall man whose long dark hair was tied back in a loose tail. At his waist hung a curved blade—slender, elegant, and unlike any sword she’d seen before.
“Muldoon.” Gates nodded at him. “Joji, this is Sarah. I want her hammock hung beside yours, and Logan’s.”
The man named Joji didn’t look at Gates but gave her a bow in greeting.
“Sarah, Joji here doesn’t say much, but he’s our strongest fighter and looks out for the crew. With him and the other two around you, I’d be a bit more at ease—at least until this lot get used to you.”
“Will do, Mr. Gates,” came the response from Muldoon. The quartermaster, happy to offload her to someone else, disappeared the way they’d come.
Sarah watched him go before turning her attention to the two pirates.
“Can I help?” she queried.
“We’ve got this,” Muldoon said, “but Smyth in the galley’s needing firewood to get the grub going. Head through—he’ll tell you what he needs.”
Not wanting to seem ungrateful for the work, she scurried down the couple of steps that led into the galley.
An older man with one arm was standing there, dragging out pewter dishes for the crew. Her footsteps alerted him.
“Name’s Smyth. The cook. You here to get my firewood?”
“That I am. But where is it?”
He jerked his head toward an opening off to the side, a dark gap that must’ve led to the stores.
“Got some in there. Not needing much—just enough to get this water boiling.”
She gave another closed-lipped smile before stepping into the shadows of the store.
It was dim inside, lit only by a single lantern hung high—well away from the wood piles and canvas-stuffed bags. She grabbed a bundle of firewood, and in the hush of the space, she could hear the waves crashing against the hull and the forge above roaring. The steady rhythm of iron striking steel told her Logan was already hard at work.
She re-entered the galley to find Smyth bent over the ship’s copper, steam curling around him as he stirred.
Sarah brought the firewood over.
“Thanks, lass. Pop a few on the flame and leave the rest over there.” He pointed with his ladle toward an unopened bag of oats. He stepped aside as she kennelled the fire, watching her as she stacked the rest neatly by the wall.
“So, sailmaker, is it? Been a while since we’ve had one of those. But Logan seems fond of you. Wouldn’t shut up about you, if I’m honest. Just wanted the lad to help me get the kettle back aboard.”
Sarah felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She kept her back to him, pretending to fuss with the firewood to make sure it stayed put.
“Don’t find that hard to believe,” she said. “Get the impression he’d talk the ear off a deaf man.”
The cook let out a surprised, rambunctious laugh.
“Oh, you’re goin’ to be just fine with us lot, Sarah. Keep that up and you’ll have the fuckers at your beck and call.” He gave her a wolfish grin as she turned to face him.
The toll of three bells rang out above, cutting through the galley’s warmth. Both of them glanced upward.
“Best go look busy for a while, love,” Smyth said, wiping his hand on his apron. “Food’s at six bells. I imagine, with not much goin’ on, you’ll get put on one of the dog watches. Gates won’t want the crew thinkin’ they’re playin’ favourites for a woman.”
With the dismissal, she made her way back out onto the berth deck. Muldoon and Joji were nowhere to be seen. Not wanting to risk being left with the wrong sort—those lounging about the benches with too much time and too little supervision—she climbed back up into the sun on the gun deck.
When she emerged, she was met by the bustle of the gun crews, checking breech ropes and tampions, ensuring the guns were up to scratch should they be needed at a moment’s notice.
“Oi, Ms. Schnider.” Came a shout from one of the men near the stern. She turned, squinting against the light, but didn’t recognize him.
He gave no introduction. “Logan wants ye.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the armoury, then bent back over the gun he’d been checking.
She set her jaw, the conversation with Logan not two hours past still fresh in her mind. It lingered like smoke—clinging to her thoughts as she made her way below.
Like the galley, the armoury sat down a short flight of steps from the deck. The air grew hotter as she descended, close and heavy, the forge casting a steady glow against the starboard bulkhead. Heat and smoke rose through a vented grate above, drifting toward the open main deck.
At the foot of the steps, a grated opening revealed a narrow ladder leading down to the armour stores—cool, dry, and sealed tight.
Logan’s back was to her; a piece of steel nestled in the embers. He moved it gently, shifting the metal to catch the heat evenly.
“You asked for me,” she said, her voice clipped.
He didn’t turn. Just kept prodding the embers, a little harder now.
“Where you been?” Was his only retort.
It drew an exasperated sigh from her. She marched forward, but before she could get too close, Logan threw out his left arm.
“Watch it. Don’t need you getting burned on your first day.”
She huffed but took a step back. He finally turned to face her, brow furrowed, eyes cold.
She glared back. “You still haven’t answered why you asked for me.”
He returned the glare. “And you still haven’t said where you’ve been.”
“Not that you need to know,” she snapped, “but Randall showed me the sail room, then Gates told me where I could bunk, and Smyth needed more firewood."
He grunted, turning to pull the steel from the forge. Grabbing his hammer, Logan began to mend the deformed sword. Sparks flew with every strike, the rhythmic clang echoing off the bulkheads.
With each blow, Sarah felt her anger rise. The heat, the noise, the way he ignored her—it all pressed in like a weight.
“Are you going to tell me or not why you wanted to see me?” she snapped, her voice sharp as the blade he was shaping.
He took a deep breath, placed the sword back in the embers, and set the hammer down. Then he crossed his arms—his own kind of defence.
“Aye, I asked for you. We’re low on charges, and the powder’s still sittin’ loose. Didn’t have time to pack them before we cast off. Captain changed tack last minute, didn’t he. I’ve got powder and wadding, but I need the bags stitched tight. No splits, no frays. One bursts while loading, it’ll take someone’s fuckin’ hand off.”
He nodded toward a crate near the wall, half-covered with a tarp. “There’s coarse canvas in there. Twine, too. You’ll need to cut it to size, stitch it double, and leave room for the tie. I’ll measure the charges myself, but I need the bags ready by nightfall.”
Sarah’s shoulders eased, the heat in her chest cooling. He wasn’t spoiling for a fight—he needed her. That was all.
“Okay,” she said, softer now. “You know, that’s all you had to say. Instead of an inquisition.”
He didn’t unfold his arms, but the tension in his frame slackened.
“Apologies,” he said. “But we’re on a tight schedule. Fuck knows when we’ll stumble on a prize, and we’ve got to be ready. I need to finish mending this sword—once I’m done, I’ll start measuring.”
She gave a firm nod before heading over to the crate. Pulling out the canvas, she spotted a few cuts already trimmed to size—enough to use as a guide for the rest. Using the edge of Logan’s workbench, she stretched the fabric flat, smoothing it with her palm. Then, reaching into her pouch, she pulled out her shears and set to work, the blades slicing clean through the coarse weave.
By the time she’d finished cutting and begun doubling the canvas and stitching the seams, Logan was setting the sword in water to cool. He moved to stand beside her, setting down a pair of brass scoops—his tools for measuring the powder.
Then he crossed to the hatch leading down to the armoury’s storage. Moments later, he returned with a barrel of powder slung over one shoulder, hefting it with practiced ease. He set it atop one of the sealed crates before prying it open.
They fell into a rhythm: she stitched the seams, he measured and poured the powder, then tied each bag off with twine. One by one, he set them aside in neat rows, ready to be taken below and stowed in the iron runners that held shot and cartridges for the eight-pounders.
They managed to finish before six bells rang, both sticky with sweat from the forge’s lingering heat. Neither spoke. As Logan tied off the last charge, he grabbed as many as he could carry. Before he could ask, Sarah picked up the rest. Together, they moved below to store them.
Logan stowed his own, then took two at a time from Sarah’s arms until her hands were empty. When the last was placed, he turned to face her.
“I appreciate the help. Got done quicker with two of us,” he said with a shrug.
“Well, that’s why I’m here. Part of the crew, aren’t I,” she replied—feigning modesty, pretending his thanks hadn’t stirred something deep in her gut.
She looked down at her empty hand while he scratched the back of his neck. Not used to dealing with a woman he didn’t have to pay to keep company, he made to climb the ladder.
“’m not married,” she said quietly. He was lucky to catch it over the racket from the sea and crew.
“Pardon?” He paused, one foot on the bottom rung.
“Earlier. You asked if I got married—if that’s why my name’s different,” she said, not turning to look at him, though she watched from the corner of her eye.
“I’ve been married. S’pose I still am, technically. But I’m widowed. Schneider’s my family name.”
He let out a breath through his teeth. “Right—okay.”
“Just thought you should know,” she added with a shrug.
He turned back to the ladder, tapping his thumb on the rail. Then he turned again, gave her elbow a quick tap.
“Onward. Grub’ll be ready soon.”
With that, he scurried up the ladder. She followed. Once she was through the hatch, he closed the grate behind them and locked it. Straightening, he gave her a closed-lipped grin, then gestured for her to go first onto the gun deck.
When they stepped out, Muldoon was inspecting one of the cannons a gun crew had been cleaning. He raised a hand in greeting, then slapped one of the younger lads on the shoulder and headed their way.
“Wondered where you ran off to. Should’ve known you’d be with ’im,” he said cheekily to Sarah.
Before either could respond, he turned to Logan. “That cutlass straightened, then?”
Logan gave him a shove. “Aye, it’s mended. Charges all bagged as well.”
Muldoon hummed in approval. “Need you around more often, Sarah—make this lazy bastard move like there’s a fire under his arse.”
“Fuck off,” Logan shot back, though he laughed as he said it.
“Don’t know about that,” Sarah chirped. “He was miserable with me back there. Clearly missed you—first laugh I’ve heard out of him all day."
Muldoon laughed. Logan smiled, though a tinge of red crept up the tops of his ears. His sanctuary came in the form of Randall, who signalled the start of dinner with the chiming of six bells.
“Right, you two,” Logan said, cutting them off with a smirk. “You’ve had your fun. Let’s go before Joji takes our rations.”
Gates appeared at the bench just as Sarah polished off the last of her stew. For most of the meal, Logan and Muldoon had been taking the piss out of each other, their banter relentless. The more she laughed, the more it spurred them on. It was the lightest she’d felt in months—maybe even years. And somehow, impossibly, it was with a bunch of pirates.
“Good, you’re all here,” Gates said, coming to a stop. “I want you three to stand the last dog watch. Not much needs tending to just now, so not sure when you’ll get your turn again.”
He turned to Sarah. “Logan’ll help you. Don’t want you doing anything heavy-handed that might get you hurt—or cost you a hand. Light duties only. We still need a sailmaker come morning.”
With that, he headed off down the berth deck toward the galley, likely hoping to grab something to eat before there was nothing left.
Muldoon took a drink from his pewter mug. “Well, that’s us told,” he said, smirking. “I’ll take the bow lookout. You two head up to the quarterdeck—should be uneventful, if we’re lucky.”
They were up on the quarterdeck before the four bells signalled the end of the first dog watch and the start of the last. The sun had begun its slow descent beyond the horizon, casting the sea in hues of gold and violet.
They took up their posts—Logan to starboard, Sarah to larboard. He’d already walked her through what to watch for: hazards in the water, changes in the wind, anything that might pose a risk to the ship or her crew. Most important of all, they were to keep sharp eyes out for the sails of another ship.
Nightfall would come during their watch, and with it, the challenge of seeing anything at all—especially if the sky clouded over. Another man on duty would pass through at some point to dampen the lanterns, muting their glow so as not to betray their position to any ships lurking in the dark.
Logan had made her wrap up, saying the temperature at sea could drop quickly—especially when standing watch without much exertion. She hadn’t argued. The wind had already picked up a bite, and the wool coat she’d shrugged on was a welcome buffer against the chill.
Now, with the sun nearly gone and the sky bleeding into twilight, she stood at the larboard rail, eyes scanning the horizon. The sea stretched out in every direction, endless and darkening, the ship creaking softly beneath her boots.
Across the deck, Logan leaned on the starboard rail, one hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass, the other tucked into his coat. He looked comfortable in the stillness, like he belonged to it.
Sarah shifted her weight, glancing his way. “You always this quiet on watch?”
He didn’t look over. “Only when there’s nothing to say.”
She smiled faintly, turning back to the sea. “Fair enough.”
He cleared his throat. “You and your sister—Londoners, are you?”
She glanced over her shoulder. He wasn’t looking at her when he asked. She turned back to the horizon, scanning.
“Sort of. That is where we came from, yes.”
“Sort of?” His brow furrowed. “What’s that mean, then?”
“It means we were born in Hamburg. Moved to London after our mother died—I was five, Leah not even one.”
“So, you’re from the Empire, then?” The surprise in his voice was plain.
“The Holy Roman Empire?” she echoed. “Yes. Though they did not want us.”
A sad lilt crept into her tone, soft but unmistakable.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Logan asked. “I get you Hamburger lot speak German, but you’re talkin’ in tongues, woman.”
“I am sorry. I do not mean to be so indirect.” She paused, eyes still on the horizon. “I have had poor luck, telling people about my past.”
She heard his boots shift on the deck rather than a reply.
“You’ve no need to worry about me judging you,” he said at last. “We’re pirates, love. Everyone aboard’s got a past—most of us one we’d rather not speak of.”
He hadn’t moved too close, just enough to offer comfort without crowding her, still keeping one eye on the starboard side.
“No, I know. I understand.” Her voice was quiet. “It is just, still very raw.”
She ran her thumb over the healing scar on her left hand.
“I can hear it now,” Logan said, voice low. “When you’re sad—I hear the accent. The way you put your words together.”
She hmm’d in response, a soft sound that barely carried over the wind. She heard his boots creak as he stepped back across the deck to his side.
“Don’t need to tell me,” he added. “Don’t need to explain. But if you want to—I’ll listen.”
They fell into a comfortable silence, each keeping watch in their own way. The only sound that marked the passing time was the ship’s bell, ringing every half hour.
By the time four bells sounded, their shift was done, and the next watch came to relieve them.
They walked together down to the main deck, then to the gun deck. Just before they made their final descent to the berth deck, Sarah laid a hand on his arm, stopping him.
The light was low—only one lantern lit aft, tucked beneath the overhang of the main deck. Enough to protect the ship’s night vision, enough for the watch over the guns and armoury to see.
He could barely make out her face when she spoke, her voice a whisper meant for him alone. Her accent was stronger now.
“It was because we are Jewish.”
She didn’t wait for a response. It confused him—he could feel the weight of it—but she couldn’t bear the scrutiny. Not again. Not for her faith.
She turned and slipped below, leaving him standing at the hatch, the lantern’s glow flickering behind her
Chapter 6: Bonds Forged
Summary:
Sarah settles into life aboard the Walrus as the crew prepares to take a prize ship. Amidst the daily routines and looming dangers, she navigates shifting alliances and hard-won trust. The events of the day test her strength and reveal unexpected bonds, both with Logan and the other crew members, as she begins to find her place in this harsh, unyielding world—one shaped as much by shared burdens as by survival.
Chapter Text
Chapter Six – Bonds Forged
09 November 1707 The Walrus, One Day northeast from the Ragged Islands
The hammocks swayed with the roll of the sea. Sarah hadn’t slept well, even though she was bone tired after her first day aboard. When she’d reached Muldoon and Joji last night, the former had been fast asleep, and the silent man had simply pointed to the hammock strung between his and another empty berth.
She’d made herself comfortable facing Joji. She couldn’t cope with seeing Logan again—the rejection, the disgust. She’d heard him come down to their sleeping quarters not long after she’d clambered into her own. Heard him kick off his boots, then the soft squeak of the hammock ropes threading through the iron cleats as he lay down. A gruff sigh escaped him.
In the pale light of dawn breaking through the grates above, she’d seen her seabag tucked into the bulkhead atop a sea chest. She pulled herself quietly from the hammock, her bare feet silent as she padded across the deck.
From the small bundle of possessions she’d brought aboard, she took the lavender soap wrapped in canvas and a clean shirt, then making her way up to the main deck.
The ship was still hushed, just a short time past the second bell of the morning watch. A few of the sparse crew moved about the deck, shadows in the dim light. None acknowledged her. She spotted Mr. Gates at the helm—Randall must have taken first watch, and Gates had relieved him.
She crossed to him, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the watch or any sleeping crew.
“Good morning, Mr. Gates,” she said. “I wondered if there was a pail I might use to heft up some water—to bathe.”
He held the helm steady with one hand and pointed to the larboard side, where a bucket hung from the railing. “Use that one there, lass—the one the captain uses.”
She smiled her thanks and made her way over, unhooking the pail. She lowered it gently into the sea, careful not to let it scrape the hull and rouse any light sleepers who might think someone was scaling the ship.
She set the bucket on the deck and knelt beside it. Her clean shirt she laid neatly at her side. With quiet hands, she untucked the white linen one she wore. Unwrapping the lavender soap, she dunked it into the bucket, then washed her face and hands first, the salt stinging the cut on her palm where she must have nicked herself yesterday.
Returning to the bucket, she brought it beneath her shirt to clean her body—quickly, silently.
A glance around the deck showed only Mr. Gates at the helm. He seemed to be giving her privacy, eyes fixed straight ahead.
She unfolded the clean shirt and laid it across her lap. In one swift motion, she pulled the worn shirt over her head, patted her damp skin dry, and held the old shirt across her chest as she slipped into the fresh one.
The dirty shirt went into the pail. She gave it a brisk scrub, wrung it out, then stood and tipped the bucket over the side. She tucked the clean shirt into her breeches, gave the wet one a final shake over the rail, then wrapped the soap back in its canvas and padded below to stow her things.
Still barefoot when she reached the berth deck, she saw some of the crew beginning to stir. In the aft corner where she’d been tucked the night before, Joji was already up, reattaching his curved blade to his waistband with practiced ease. Muldoon was still snoring; one arm flung over his face.
Logan was awake, though. He sat on the edge of his hammock, legs dangling, rubbing his face with a large, calloused hand.
Both he and Joji looked up as she approached. The latter gave her a small bow, just as he had the day before. When he straightened, he passed her without a word, heading up to the deck.
Logan hadn’t taken his eyes off her.
“Wondered where you’d gone off to so early,” he said, voice thick with sleep. His gaze dropped to the wet shirt in her hands. “You can hang that in the armoury with me today, if you like. Heat’ll dry it out.”
She looked down at the dripping linen. “Please. That would be helpful.”
He nodded and rose from the hammock, stretching with a yawn. His shirt lifted as he did, revealing the taut lines of his stomach and a dusting of hair that disappeared below his waistband.
Thankfully, his eyes were still closed—and missed the pink that bloomed across her cheeks.
She bustled over to her seabag, tucking the wrapped soap back into its place. Then, leaning on the sea chest for balance, she pulled her boots on over bare feet, the leather stiff from salt and wear.
Logan followed suit, tugging on his own boots before stepping toward her. He stopped just in front of her, and her eyes widened, unsure what he meant to say. But his gaze flicked past her.
“You mind? Need into that chest you’re leanin’ on.”
“Oh—yes, of course,” she said, flustered. She stepped aside, watching as he lifted her seabag off the lid and opened the chest.
He pulled out a leather waistcoat and apron, shrugging the former on over his long-sleeved cotton shirt. Then he fastened a wide leather belt around his waist, the buckle catching the light. The apron followed, tied snug at his hips—ready for a day at the forge.
Before closing the lid, he glanced down at her seabag resting on the floor.
“Want me to put your seabag in my chest?” he asked. “Safer than leavin’ it out. No one’d have the balls to go rakin’ through my things.”
She glanced at the bag. “If it wouldn’t be much trouble? I don’t want to bother you every time I need something from it.”
He sighed but lifted the bag all the same. “Not trouble. It’ll fit, and you can get in whenever you need. Just ask and I’ll give you the key. I leave it open when we’re down here—easier if we get in a fray while in our kip. Only lock it in the day, when you don’t know who’s slinkin’ about.”
She tugged at the wet shirt in her hands. “Thank you. Aren’t you worried I’ll go through your belongings?”
He shut the lid—not quietly. “No. Trust you.”
He didn’t look at her as he said it. Didn’t look at her at all after that. He simply took the linen from her hands and turned, heading up to the gun deck—leaving her alone with her thoughts, and the quiet confusion they stirred.
She was shaded from the mid-morning November sun as she sat on her sail bench. Earlier, she’d spoken with Mr. Gates before he went to rest after the morning watch. She was confident they had all the canvas cut from the bolts of sailcloth for the mains’l, but there wasn’t one sewn and reinforced in the hold—not if the one currently rigged were to be torn in a blow or shredded in battle.
Gates had agreed with her: that should be her priority.
They could manage without the tops’ls or t’gallants for a time, even without the sails on the foremast or mizzen. She could patch or replace those quicker. But if the mains’l on the mainmast gave out, they’d be well and truly fucked.
She’d had a couple of the rigging crew bring up two bolts of canvas—enough to work with, but not so much that she’d be underfoot. It meant she could stow it quickly if the deck needed clearing.
Sarah spread the sailcloth along the planks, the stiff fabric catching the breeze as she anchored it with her knees and a pair of sandbags. With her yardstick in hand, she marked the concave and convex curves of each broadcloth panel, careful to keep the lines true. Once stitched, the shape would give the sail its belly—enough to catch the wind without straining the spars.
She forced a basting stitch through the heavy canvas to hold the panels together, working steadily until the lengths were aligned. Then she shifted to her sail bench, settling in with the cloth draped across her lap. Her sail hook kept tension in the seam as she began the double-stitch that would turn raw canvas into sail.
No one bothered her while she worked—the crew too busy with their own tasks to take notice. She kept her focus on the sail, only glancing up once when she heard the door to the captain’s cabin creak open.
Flint stepped out, his gaze sweeping the deck in a slow, measured arc. He lingered a moment, unreadable as ever, then turned and disappeared back into his quarters without a word.
Engrossed in her work, Sarah jumped when the call rang out from the watch.
“Sail ho! Off the starboard bow!”
For a heartbeat, the deck held its breath. Then came the sudden clatter of boots hammering up the ladders and across the planks—men rushing to starboard, jostling for a glimpse of the distant sails.
“Out the way, you lot,” barked Randall, elbowing through the crowd as he raised his spyglass.
“Aye, sails alright,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Looks like a merchantman.”
The captain emerged at the announcement, his boots silent on the deck. Randall handed him the spyglass without a word as Flint stepped up to the rail, lifting it to his eye. His shirt was open at the throat, sleeves rolled, hair tied back with care but not vanity—still neater than most aboard, but far from the polished officer he once was.
Flint lowered the spyglass, his expression unreadable, but his voice carried across the deck with quiet certainty.
“She’s heavy in the water—laden, likely sugar or tobacco. Wind’s with her, but she’s wallowing. No escort in sight.”
He turned to Randall, his tone sharpening.
“She’s ours if we’re quick. Bring us around to intercept—broad reach, keep her windward. We’ll run her down before she sights us proper.”
Then, almost to himself, he added, “No need to chase if you can herd.”
At those words, the crew sprang into motion. Randall barked orders to the rigging crew, sending them aloft to unfurl the t’gallants. The Sail Master, De Groot, relayed instructions to the bosun—keep the canvas safe, but trim it to their advantage.
Sarah began folding the canvas into her lap, careful not to be underfoot as the deck came alive around her. Lines were cast off, blocks creaked, and the ship leaned slightly as the sails caught the wind. She tucked her needle into her tool roll, eyes flicking toward the rail where Flint stood, still watching the horizon like a man reading a map only he could see.
As she rose to heave the canvas below and stow it away, a sudden gust caught the sails, tugging at the rigging and throwing her off balance. She stumbled, catching herself against the foremast beneath which her bench was set. As she steadied, she noticed a young crewman approaching—broad-shouldered, with strange markings on his skin. Healed brands, by the look of them, faded now and blending into his dark shoulders.
“Let me help you, ma’am. We’ll be battening down the orlop hatch as we ready the guns. We’ll get it below before it’s sealed.”
He didn’t wait for an answer—just hoisted the folded canvas onto his shoulder with practiced ease. She fell in step behind him.
“Thank you—ah?”
“Joshua, ma’am. Part of the vanguard. Help the gun crews when needed.”
“Well, thank you, Joshua. I appreciate it.”
“All one crew, ma’am. Gotta keep you safe. Or Mr. Gates’ll have my head.”
She laughed, surprised by his warmth. He was easy to talk to.
“Call me Sarah, Joshua. As you said—we’re all one crew.”
“Right ma—Sarah. Mr. Logan said to me when he sent me up that once we’ve got your canvas away, you’ve to go see him. Once we reach speed, Randall will go over our battle plan.”
She smiled, warmed by his easy manner—then blinked as his words pulled her back to the moment.
The thought of taking the prize didn’t frighten her the way it ought to. The idea that any one of them could die today—cut down by cannon or blade—would have left most women in hysterics. But Sarah had seen the cruelty of men. She had witnessed death. Been its hand.
No, what unsettled her now wasn’t the coming fight.
It was that Logan wanted to see her.
She swallowed down her fear and moved ahead, descending to the orlop deck as Joshua followed with the canvas slung over his shoulder. The air below was thick with salt and damp, the creak of the hull louder here, more intimate. She’d already cleared the small built-in workbench, once piled high with torn and sea-rotted sails, making space for urgent repairs or to keep her current work close at hand for when time allowed.
They laid the canvas on the bench. Joshua didn’t linger, already heading back up to the gun deck. Sarah checked the leather pouch buckled at her waist. Her sail palm was still strapped to her hand—worn smooth in places, but firm enough to drive a needle through canvas.
Inside the pouch, she kept the tools she trusted: a roll of waxed twine, a few heavy sail needles wrapped in oilcloth, beeswax, her shears and a small marlinspike. Tucked beside them were finer tailoring needles and a coil of linen thread—too delicate for sailcloth, but perfect for stitching clothes or, in a pinch, skin.
From the bundle of canvas piled beside the bench, she pulled a narrow roll of lighter cloth—closer to linen than duck—and tucked it under her arm. It was the kind of material that could be sewn quickly, used to patch a sail or bind a wound if need be.
She wasn’t a surgeon. But she knew her craft, and she could mend what she could.
Satisfied she was prepared, she made her way back up to the gun deck. As she rose out of the hatch, one of the gunner’s mates approached.
“We’ll be putting down the grate, but you’ll be able to get below once we’ve boarded the prize—get any duck you need for repairs.”
She nodded in acknowledgement. He and another young crewman hauled the grate into place over the hatch, securing it so no one would fall below during the fray.
With the lighter canvas still tucked under her arm, she turned toward the armoury, head held high, jaw taut.
When she stepped down into Logan’s workspace, his back was to her—just as it had been the day before while he worked the forge. But unlike yesterday, when he’d been mending a cutlass, today he was spreading out the embers and dousing them with sand to cool them. They couldn’t risk live flame now—not with powder charges being ferried back and forth between the armoury and the guns.
The hatch down to the stores was open again, and on his workbench lay a pair of flintlock pistols and a scatter of other weapons—half-cleaned, half-loaded, all ready to be hauled topside.
Biting her lip, she spoke. “Logan?”
He turned at her voice, brow low, jaw tight. He looked like a man with too many thoughts and not enough time.
“Good. You’re here.” He wiped his hands on a rag, then tossed it aside. “Stick close when it kicks off. Neither of us’ll be going over the top, but we’re to support the guns and drag the wounded out the way. You see someone bleeding out, don’t wait for orders—just move.”
He gave her a once-over, eyes flicking to the canvas under her arm.
“That for patchin’ sails or people?”
She glanced down at the duck, suddenly self-conscious. It felt foolish now—like she’d made the wrong call, like she’d overstepped by deciding on her own. The kind of choice she still wasn’t sure she was allowed to make.
“Either,” she said, voice low. “Thought best to bring it, in case it goes sideways.”
Logan placed his hands on his hips, nodding as she spoke.
“No, that’s good. Dr. Howell’ll be with whoever needs the most help. If you can patch ’em up while they wait, might save a good few men.”
She felt childish for the smile that spread across her face. Logan didn’t return it, but the tension in his brow eased, his jaw unclenching just slightly. He shook his head—more at himself than her—and turned back to the workbench.
With a flick of his fingers, he waved her over.
Standing beside him, she set the canvas down beside a sealed barrel near the bench. His hands hovered over the weapons laid out before him, fingers twitching as he weighed his options. He spoke while he made his decision, her eyes drawn from the calloused strength of his hands to the hard line of his jaw.
“Right—I said you won’t be boarding, but that’s not to say some of the prize crew won’t find their way onto the Walrus. You need to be ready.”
He paused, picking up a short knife still sheathed in worn leather.
Turning to face her, he stood close—close enough that if she’d been taller, they might’ve been nose to nose. But Logan towered over her by a full ten inches compared to her five-foot frame. She had to tilt her chin to meet his eyes.
Without asking, he reached for the buckle of her pouch belt.
Her eyes widened in surprise, arms lifting instinctively to catch his upper arms. He didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care—his voice steady as he continued.
“You don’t need a long-range weapon. Just something for when some cunt from the other ship gets too close. You’re a woman—they’ll see that as an easy mark. Use it. Let ’em think you’re soft—then gut ’em.”
The sheath had a loop for threading onto a belt, which he handled with practiced ease. He tightened the buckle, securing it back around her waist. His hand slipped between the leather and her hip, tucking the knife into place.
Her cheeks warmed at the contact—unexpected, uninvited, but not unwelcome. It wasn’t the touch itself that flustered her, but the quiet certainty behind it. He wasn’t marking her. He wasn’t claiming her. He was arming her.
He wasn’t stepping in to protect her.
He was trusting her to protect herself.
And that, somehow, was more intimate than any touch.
More than anyone else had ever offered her.
Her father had protected her once—spirited her away from Hamburg after her mother’s death, only to marry her off to a man who did not protect her, but harmed her. A man who taught her, brutally, that no one else would keep her safe.
So she had learned to protect herself.
But this—this was different. Logan wasn’t shielding her. He wasn’t demanding her story or her silence. He was giving her space. A blade. A choice.
And in that, something long buried began to stir.
When he withdrew, the blade came with him—drawn in one smooth motion, as if to show her how easily it could be done.
And in a twisted sort of way, she felt it—relief. Shame curled in behind it, quick and sharp. She ought not feel grateful. Not for this. Not for being told to do the very thing she'd once been punished for.
But she was.
Logan didn’t know. He couldn’t. And yet here he was, pressing a blade into her hand and telling her to use it. Not to flee. Not to plead. But to stand her ground. To strike, if need be.
He wasn’t offering pity. He wasn’t asking questions. He was giving her leave to fight.
And that—that—was what unsettled her most. That it felt like something being returned to her. Something she hadn’t known she’d lost.
Logan, unaware of the storm behind her eyes, reached for her left hand—the sail palm still hooked over her thumb and strapped tight against her skin—and gently closed her fingers around the dagger’s hilt. His own hand settled over hers, broad and steady, guiding her grip.
He moved her arm with care, showing her the angle, the motion, the weight behind the strike.
“It’s a dagger,” he said. “Short, but sharp. Can do a hell of a lot of damage if you use it right.”
He pulled her arm—not harshly—until the blade touched his belly.
“Aim for here.” Using the tip as his guide, he dragged it lightly across his gut. “Then slice. And twist before you pull back.” He turned their joined hands a quarter turn.
She watched the motion, their hands moving as one. He watched her face, searching for disgust, for fear.
He found none.
When he made the pull-back motion, her gaze lifted to meet his. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—gratitude, maybe—and it caught him off guard. A flash of surprise crossed his face before he cleared his throat, the air between them suddenly too thick.
“Do that, ’n’ you’ll survive.”
He let go of her slowly but didn’t step back.
She stood with the dagger between them for a moment, then looked down at the blade. Taking it in both hands, she turned it over, studying the edge.
“Just sharpened it this morning,” he said. “Won’t dull right away.”
She nodded and slid it back into its sheath with care.
A quiet, “Thank you,” followed.
“Yes, well—can’t have you dying on us.”
He finally stepped back, the space between them settling like a drawn breath. With a practiced motion, he unfastened his leather apron and set it aside—he had no need for it now.
Turning to the bench, he picked up a wide leather crossbelt and pulled it over his head, letting it fall diagonally across his chest. He slid his cutlass into the loop at his side, then reached for a pistol and tucked it into the belt at his waist—no holster, just the snug grip of worn leather and habit.
The noise from the crew swelled—boots on timber, shouted orders, the scrape of cannon wheels—and both turned toward the opening onto the gun deck. Muldoon peeked his head in.
“Randall’s starting you two.”
Logan gave a short nod. Sarah’s fingers brushed the hilt at her side, the weight of it suddenly very real.
They exchanged a glance before climbing the short steps and stepping out onto the deck.
Muldoon stood at the base of the ladder to the main deck, arms crossed, one foot resting on the bottom rail. Beside him, crates had been stacked tight against the bulkhead, out of the way of the guns. Some of the crew had begun to settle there, boots braced, eyes sharp.
Her sail bench had been brought down and now sat in front of them.
Logan used the bench to clamber up onto the crates, settling with his knees spread, elbows braced on them, the weight of unease etched back across his face.
Sarah drifted toward them, uncertain where to stand. She glanced over her shoulder at Randall, then at the rest of the crew filtering up from the berth deck.
A hand touched her elbow—light, but firm. She turned to find Logan, his fingers curling gently to guide her.
He gave a small tug, wordless but clear, drawing her toward the space between his knees. Toward her bench, where his boots now rested.
She sat down, her back straight, shoulders drawn in, arms tight to her sides. Her fingers curled around the edge of the bench, clutching the scuffed wood that was already becoming familiar. It was warm beneath her, but she was too tense to let the warmth settle in. Too aware of the eyes behind her. Too aware of the man above her, silent and still, his boots bracketing her hips like a promise—or a warning.
Muldoon murmured something to Logan, his voice low but audible over the rising chatter of the crew. Logan leaned in to reply, shifting forward—his arms, still braced between his knees, skimmed lightly across her back.
She turned to look at them. Muldoon was watching her as he listened, his expression unreadable. Her stomach tightened. Was Logan telling him what she’d confessed the night before?
She didn’t look away, even as Logan turned back around. The flicker of surprise on his face again said he hadn’t expected to find her watching.
Her pulse thudded in her throat. She didn’t know what Logan had said. She only knew the way Muldoon’s eyes lingered, and the way Logan’s didn’t.
“Right, you lot—fuckin’ listen up.”
Randall’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. She didn’t turn right away.
Logan’s hand slid over her shoulder—light, steady, grounding. The touch sent a shiver down her spine; one she tried to suppress.
Only then did she turn to face Randall.
“Sails’ve got good wind in ’em now,” he said. “We’ll likely catch up with the ship in about four hours, if we hold our seven and a half knots and the wind doesn’t shift. Don’t expect any trouble—hopefully they’ll strike colours when we show ours.”
His eyes swept across the crew, weighing them.
“If they don’t surrender, vanguard goes over the top first—then any other able-bodied man. Gunners stay on the cannons in case they try anything clever. Sarah, I need you watching the sails. Help the gunners with Logan, and Howell if there are any casualties.”
She gave a short nod.
“We’ll be able to catch up with her and avoid any awkward boardings. With how low she’s ridin’, we reckon they’ve traded gun space for cargo. All the more reason we want her to surrender.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crew.
“That’s it. Make sure you’re prepared—I don’t want to lose anyone today.”
Randall headed back up onto the main deck, and the crew began to disperse.
She turned to look at Logan and Muldoon, curiosity from Randall’s orders overtaking her earlier concerns.
Muldoon gave her a single nod—gruff, but not unkind. Logan was already watching her, his expression unreadable.
Around them, the crew began to move. Some with purpose. Some with glances.
One man—broad-shouldered, with a scar splitting his brow—lingered longer than the rest. His gaze slid from Sarah to Logan, then back again. Not hostile. Not quite. But measuring.
He spat on the deck and turned away.
Another muttered something under his breath as he passed. She didn’t catch the words, but the tone was unmistakable.
She kept her chin up; hands still curled around the edge of the bench. If they wanted to watch her, let them.
She’d been watched before.
But the heat in her cheeks lingered, and her pulse hadn’t quite settled. She needed something else to focus on—something solid, something useful.
She turned to Logan and Muldoon, her voice quieter than before. “What did he mean about awkward boarding?”
Logan didn’t answer. His eyes were still locked on the man with the scar, jaw tight, shoulders coiled like he hadn’t quite decided whether to let it go.
Muldoon stepped in instead. “Aye—if you try boardin’ bow to midship, for example, it’s a bloody nightmare.”
“More like fuckin’ suicide,” Logan muttered, still watching the man’s retreating back.
“Exactly,” Muldoon said. “You’ve got to persuade her—the prize ship—to tack off course, give us a better angle. Bow chasers help with that, but if she’s got a heavy arsenal, they don’t do shit.”
“Hm. I see.” Sarah nodded slowly. The explanation made sense—brutal, but sound.
“Aye, now if you two excuse me,” Muldoon added, pushing off the crate, “got to go to the head before all the pussies start shittin’ themselves.”
His crudeness shouldn’t have shocked her, but she still felt her eyebrows climb toward her hairline.
Logan’s gaze lingered a moment longer. Then he exhaled through his nose and turned back to her. The tension hadn’t left him entirely, but it had shifted—tightened into something quieter, more focused.
“Ignore him,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Too open for his own good.”
She looked at him, her earlier nerves thundering back now that there were no more distractions.
Sarah shifted, turning so she could see him more clearly, her back resting against his booted calf.
“Before, when we sat down—you and Muldoon were talking.” She hesitated, then pushed the words out. “You didn’t tell him what I told you last night?”
Logan’s brow furrowed. “No,” he said, low and firm. “’Course not.”
She held his gaze a moment longer, searching for any flicker of doubt. There was none. Just the same steady presence he’d offered her in the dark, when the wind had been softer and the world quieter.
“I told you I’d listen,” he added, voice gentler now. “Not repeat.”
Sarah nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing by degrees. She looked away, blinking hard.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Logan shifted, his boot brushing lightly against her back. “You’re safe here, Sarah. Whatever’s behind you—that’s yours to carry how you choose.”
She didn’t answer, but the way her fingers loosened on the bench said enough.
Sarah stood in the entryway to the armoury as the vanguard readied themselves. Many had stripped off their shirts, streaking their skin with ash from the forge or smearing on white lime wash. Joshua, ever the spectacle, bared his sharpened false teeth—filed to points, grotesque and gleaming.
They looked fearsome now, but in the chaos of a boarding, she imagined they’d be something else entirely. Terrifying. Inhuman.
“Sarah?”
Logan’s voice, calling from behind, pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to see his head poking out of the hatch below.
“You give me a hand?” he asked, already disappearing back into the armoury storage.
She followed, climbing down the ladder to find him waiting at the bottom. One hand rested on the hilt of his cutlass, the other scratched absently at his beard.
He looked—unexpectedly—bashful.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked, keeping her tone casual. She glanced around. Nothing seemed out of place, and as far as she could tell, most of the crew was already armed.
Logan didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to hers, then away again.
“Needed to speak to you without the others listenin’.” He looked back at her. “You didn’t give me a chance to say last night, and I’m not askin’ you to tell me everything. But you bein’ from Hamburg—and Jewish—that doesn’t matter to me. It’s just part of you.”
He shifted his weight, hand still resting on the hilt of his cutlass.
“Like I said earlier—I’ll listen. And I won’t tell. That still stands.”
“I…” She started, then stopped. Her gaze dropped as she picked at the seam of her belt.
“I want to tell you. I do. I just cannot—not yet. That does not mean I will not, only that I will, when I am ready.”
Logan gave a small nod, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he stepped forward, just enough to close the space between them without crowding her.
“I’ll be here,” he said simply. “When you are.”
He looked down at her hand where she had removed her sail palm. She shifted, and the cuff of her sleeve slipped just enough to reveal the edge of a scar—raised, puckered, unmistakably deliberate. A single letter, half-hidden.
Logan’s eyes caught on it. His brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
She froze.
He stepped even closer before he could stop himself, reaching for her wrist.
“Is that—?”
She jerked her hand back; sleeve yanked down in one swift motion. “Don’t.”
The word wasn’t loud, but it landed like a slap.
Logan blinked. His jaw tightened—but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stepped back, hands open at his sides.
“Sorry,” he muttered, stepping back. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” she said, voice low. “But please don’t.”
He didn’t press. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t demand an answer or twist her words into something else.
He just stepped back.
And for a moment, Sarah could only stare—because no man ever had.
Then Logan exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Okay.”
He nodded toward the iron runners stacked behind her. “Help me get enough charges up there before Muldoon starts shoutin’.”
Sarah and Logan had worked side by side in silence, assisting the gunners as they prepared. The last task had been to arm the rest of the crew for going over the top. Logan handled that. Sarah climbed above deck to inspect the sails for faults or weak points, Randall walking beside her.
She didn’t speak—just moved with purpose, eyes sharp, fingers brushing canvas and rope. The workmanship displeased her. Sloppy stitching. Uneven tension. But they would hold. They had to.
Later, when time allowed, she would see to it that every sail aboard the Walrus—rigged or spare— was made of the toughest cloth in the Bahamas.
Randall barked orders to the riggers as they moved together along the lines, his voice sharp and sure. Sarah said nothing. She didn’t need to.
In the four hours since Randall had rallied the crew—his voice pitched to stir courage more than command—they’d closed steadily on the merchant vessel. The wind had held, the sea had stayed kind, and now the prize loomed on the horizon: fat, slow, and blissfully unaware.
The Walrus creaked with tension. Lines were coiled, blades checked, pistols loaded. The gunners had their charges stacked and ready, and the boarding party waited like hounds on a leash.
Sarah moved among the rigging with practiced ease, her eyes scanning for frays, her hands testing knots. She barely heard Randall beside her, still commanding the crew to his will. They couldn’t afford to lose the wind now—not with the prize within reach. Her mind was elsewhere—half in the sails, half in the armoury, four hours ago.
She hadn’t meant to show him the brand. Hadn’t meant to say please.
But he’d stopped. Just stopped.
And that, she thought, was harder to forget than anything else.
Mr. Gates hollered something from the quarterdeck—words she didn’t catch. Randall tapped her arm.
“Go below now lass, be mindful of the guns and stick with Logan. He’ll keep you straight and true. Prize has caught sight of us now, if we need you to mend, we’ll call on ye.”
Sarah blinked, pulled from her thoughts by the tap on her arm. She nodded once, sharp and silent, and turned toward the hatch.
The deck beneath her boots thrummed with tension. Voices rose and fell—orders, curses, prayers. Somewhere aft, the gunners were already shifting into position, the scent of powder thickening in the air.
She walked past Muldoon, crouched beside one of the guns. The vanguard waited, half-hidden behind the gunwale on the main deck, others ready to mount the ladder the moment Gates gave the order.
Logan was just inside the door of the armoury.
When she reached him, they stood face to face for a beat. Then he shifted sideways, cupped her shoulder, and gently guided her inside behind him.
Neither spoke. Logan checked the flint on his pistol. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Above, the crew had fallen into a deadly hush, waiting for orders.
Logan turned slightly toward her.
“Gates says they haven’t surrendered. Be on your guard. Wouldn’t be the first—or the last—time we’ve misjudged a merchant crew and what they’re capable of.”
“Okay,” she said, swallowing.
“The vanguard’ll throw over firepots—enough to cause distraction and confusion while they hook on the grapplin’ lines. Keeps her from sailing off without us. They’ll open the gunports—get some of our crew below deck to strike from underneath while the rest come in from above.”
Randall’s voice rang out from above. Sarah and Logan looked up toward the deckhead.
Moments later, the firepots hit—clay shattering against the prize ship with dull, echoing thuds.
The crew held their breath, listening.
Then came the pop of muskets—sharp, close. The merchant crew would not go down without a fight.
It didn’t stop the grappling lines. Hooks flew, biting into the prize’s bulwark.
As the lines pulled taut, the Walrus shuddered. Hull met hull with a groan of timber and iron.
Another command rang out. The vanguard surged over the gunwale—and the clash of cutlasses followed at once.
The moment the main deck was cleared, the next wave went up the ladders. Below, the gun crews swung open the ports. Some clambered through the merchant ship’s gunports, others scaling the netting hooked on for them.
With the last of the boarding crew gone, the gunners stood ready—waiting for the call of “Two, six, heave!” if it came to that.
Logan drew his cutlass. His grip tightened around the leather hilt, shoulders squaring. Every part of him radiated menace—calculated, deliberate, and ready.
He stepped forward just enough to watch the gunports—and the deck above—for any deserters or overzealous merchant crew.
Sarah followed his steps, staying just behind him, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger.
She could hear the screams and grunts from the other ship. Metal rang against metal, slicing through the steady slap of waves against the hulls.
She didn’t know how the fight was faring, but took it as a good sign the captain and quartermaster hadn’t ordered the ship sunk.
A splash to her right—someone or something overboard. It didn’t draw Logan’s attention as he moved further along the gun deck.
Movement near the splash caught her eye. The gunport just ahead of her—but behind him—wasn’t as heavily manned as the others. A weak link the enemy had clearly noticed.
A man rushed through the port, heading straight for the armourer.
“Christopher!” she shouted—but her body moved before her voice.
The dagger beneath her hand was already in motion. In a blink, it was unsheathed—and buried beneath the man’s ribs, stopping him cold.
The sound of a name so rarely used made Logan whirl around, eyes wide with alarm.
But he had nothing to fear—the only woman aboard had just saved his life. The only one to shout, to act, while the rest stood frozen.
The man staggered back off her blade. He made as if to lunge again—took one step, then another—but dropped to his knees before the third.
She stared at Logan. He saw no remorse in her eyes—only relief—as she stood, still poised, the sailor’s blood dripping thick and red from her dagger.
Sarah had killed for him. Without hesitation. But he knew now wasn’t the time to ponder it.
“Right, you bunch of bastards—you’re meant to be manning those gunports, not standing lookin’ pretty. Good job Sarah’s got some gumption, or I’d be dead,” he roared, whipping back around.
The fury of almost—literally—being stabbed in the back drove him. And it clearly lit a fire under the gun crews.
The men meant to guard the port the attacker had slipped through scrambled back into position, shame-faced as whipped pigs.
Sarah bent to wipe the blood from her dagger on the downed man’s shirt. She didn’t sheath it—just kept it tight in her fist, eyes scanning the gunports for any who dared try again.
Logan paced the gun deck, ready for a fight—or the order to blow the bitch up.
It felt like forever. Then, at last, the call came from Mr. Gates: stand down.
She heard the gangways being dragged onto the bulwark, laid across to let the crew haul their spoils back to the Walrus.
Voices followed. Footsteps. She saw some of the crew return, stomping down to the gun deck—soaked in sweat, blood, and fuck knew what else.
Randall appeared in her line of sight on the main deck.
“Sarah, got some canvas that could use your expertise on.”
He didn’t need to say more. She was already moving toward him.
She slid her dagger back into its sheath at her waist. Randall stood at the gangway, hand extended.
Sarah grabbed it without a thought and hauled herself up, then made the shuddering passage across to the prize ship. Joji stood guard on the other side; he offered a steadying arm as she jumped down.
She waited for no further instructions. Instead, she headed below—down through the hatches to the hold, where the canvas was likely kept.
She passed the surviving crew of the merchant ship—those who had surrendered—now watched over by her own crewmates. Silent, bruised, bloodied. The air was thick with sweat, salt, and the sour tang of fear.
Toward the aft, a door stood open where goods were being hauled out. She stepped through into the dim, crowded space beyond, where the crew were already tearing into crates, chests, and canvas bags.
Gates stood ahead.
“Mr. Gates,” she called. “Randall says there’s canvas that requires my eye.”
“That there is. This way.”
He led her deeper into the hold, weaving between crates and barrels until he stopped beside a stack of bundled cloth.
“No sail room,” he said, nudging one with his boot. “But this lot comes close enough.”
Sarah crouched, fingers brushing the edge of the bundle. The weave was tight, the fibres dense and clean. She tugged at a corner and let the fabric run through her hands—stiff, unweathered, untouched by salt or sun.
“Duck canvas,” she murmured. “Raw.”
That word alone made her pause. Most canvas they came across had to be stripped from rigging—patched, sun-bleached, half-rotted. This was different. Virgin sailcloth. The kind you rarely saw unless you were outfitting a ship fresh from the yard.
She looked up at Gates. “Where’d they get this?”
He shrugged. “Manifest says Havana. Bound for Bristol.”
Sarah exhaled slowly, already calculating how many sails she could cut from the stack. Enough to replace the worst of the Walrus’s mainsail, maybe even a spare tops’l.
“Randall’ll be pleased,” she said, but her voice was low, reverent. This was a find.
“Can we take it all?” she asked. “It’d outfit near the whole mainmast. Would see us through a good few squalls come storm season.”
“’S why I had Randall fetch you, lass. You’re the sailmaker. You take what you need. If you think the ship needs all of it, we’ll take the lot.”
She nodded, eyes on the canvas. She still wasn’t used to a man taking her word as it came—relying on her expertise instead of second-guessing it or claiming they knew better.
Mr. Gates watched her a moment as she thought. Then he spotted one of the crew passing by with a sack slung over his shoulder.
“Froom,” he called, “go find Randall. Tell him to come below—and bring a few hefty lads with him. Sailmaker needs all this canvas moved to the orlop on the Walrus.”
The young pirate nodded and disappeared up the ladder, boots thudding against the rungs as he climbed.
Sarah remained where she was, fingers still brushing the edge of the canvas bundle. The hold was thick with the scent of salt, sweat, and old wood. Around her, the crew continued their work—grunting, cursing, prying open crates with the reverence of treasure hunters and the urgency of thieves.
It wasn’t long before the sound of heavy steps echoed down the hatchway.
Randall appeared first, ducking through the low beam with a grunt, followed by three broad-shouldered crewmen who looked like they could carry the Walrus herself if asked.
“Hal,” he said in greeting to the quartermaster. “Sarah happy with what we found then?”
“Aye, that she is. Wants the lot of it. Should be able to nearly get all new sails for the mainmast out of it.”
“Fuckin’ hell, that’d do us a good service then.” The gruff man nodded, glancing at Sarah. “Right, lads—you heard ‘em. We’re taking the lot. Sarah’ll show you where she wants it stowed.”
No complaints came from the three men. She walked ahead of them once they had a good few bolts of canvas slung over their shoulders.
Joji helped her back onto the gangway, steadying her as she crossed—but no one waited to greet her on the other side.
She made her way down to the gun deck, where the hatch to the orlop was still closed. Two of the men set down their loads to haul it open. She descended the steep steps, the third man following close behind with his bundle.
She showed him where to set it, then turned to help as he reached up, taking the duck being passed down from above. One of the others had already returned to the prize ship to fetch the remaining bolts.
They all knew time was tight. Stripping the prize and getting underway wasn’t just routine—it was survival.
The rest of the canvas came quickly. Once it was stowed, they headed topside.
Sarah returned to the main deck, eyes already scanning the rigging. She moved with purpose, checking the sails—looking for any sabotage that might’ve slipped through during the fight. A frayed line, a loosened cleat, a knife nick in the canvas—any one of them could spell disaster once they were underway.
Randall joined her by the time she was inspecting the mizzenmast, having seen nothing amiss with the fore and main.
“Riggin’ crew say they see no fault with the cables nor line. What say you, Sarah?”
“Can’t say I’ve found aught—yet. But it pays to be cautious.”
He gave a dry chuckle. He’d always favoured crew who took charge of their trade. Sailmakers they’d had before would’ve taken the riggers at their word. Wasn’t uncommon to find themselves in a mad scramble to patch a sail before a blow—all for a nick in the canvas gone unnoticed.
She finished her inspection of the mizzen with Randall at her side. As the rigging crew had claimed, there were no issues; their word held true.
Before they parted, Randall stopped her.
“Hear we’ve you to thank for still havin’ an armourer.”
Sarah paused. She hadn’t thought much on the matter since it happened. Truth be told, she hadn’t thought at all—she’d simply acted. And she did not regret it.
“No thanks needed. Wasn’t about to let a man be stabbed in the back. I’d’ve done the same for any of them.”
“I believe you, lass,” the Bosun said, though a grin tugged at his face. “All the same—thank you for standin’ by Logan, when it seems no one else did.”
She didn’t know what to do with the gratitude. So, she nodded and slipped away before more could be said.
Sarah passed the gangway as more crew returned with their spoils. One man balanced a pair of casks atop a crate. She stepped in and took them from him without a word.
“Thanks,” the man grunted, relieved of the load.
She glanced at him, brow raised.
“’S powder,” he added, answering the question in her eyes. “Needs to go to Logan.”
She turned on her heel and made for the armoury. The casks were heavy, and she was grateful when Joshua—just about to head up to the deck—paused at the bottom of the steps and took one from her.
She masked her relief as best she could when the burden eased.
“It’s for Logan,” was all she said, then continued aft along the gun deck.
Logan wasn’t in the room when they entered, though the hatch stood open. Joshua set his cask down and returned to the prize ship.
Sarah, still carrying hers, hefted it up onto her shoulder to free one hand as she descended to store the powder.
The cask blocked her view. It wasn’t until she lowered it to the floor and straightened that she realised Logan was standing right in front of her.
She jumped and let out a sharp yelp, startled by his sudden appearance.
“Forgive me,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I reckoned you’d heard me below.”
Her hand flew to her chest. “No harm done. I ought’ve known you were about."
“What’ve you brought me then?”
“Powder. There’s another keg up top—I couldn’t carry both.”
He nodded, the dim light making it hard for her to see much beyond the outline of his face. Logan stepped closer, resting a hand on the ladder. The light through the open hatch caught his features just enough for her to make them out.
He was close. Too close.
She stepped back instinctively, her shoulders brushing the very ladder she’d just descended.
Logan looked at her—his expression unreadable—as his gaze drifted downward. To the hand that bore the brand he’d nearly seen, to the breeches her sister had salvaged, and at last to her well-worn boots.
He cleared his throat, though his gaze stayed low.
“You stood for me earlier. I’d not be breathin’ now, had you not.”
His voice was rough, but there were no sharp edges to it.
She dropped her gaze, scuffing the toe of her boot against a knot in the deck where the wood had risen. Said nothing.
A beat passed. Then—
“You called me Christopher.”
Her head lifted, eyes meeting his.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.
“Don’t reckon I’ve heard that name from anyone’s lips in years. Least of all like that.”
There was something in his voice—quiet, low, not quite steady. Not accusation. Not gratitude. Something else.
He looked at her then, properly. And for a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than the powder she’d carried.
“Had to get your attention. Couldn’t let him kill you, not when—” She closed her mouth. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she knew she couldn’t say it.
He watched her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
“Not when what?” he asked, voice low.
She shook her head, a breath catching in her throat. “It doesn't matter.”
He stepped in—not close enough to touch, but close enough she could feel the weight of him.
“Yes, it does,” he said, softer now. “You said my name like it meant somethin’. Like it weren’t just a word to shout across a fight.”
She swallowed, but said nothing.
“I’d near forgot how it sounded,” he added, gaze dropping to the floor between them. “Didn’t think I missed it. ’Til you said it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of everything neither of them dared speak.
“I can’t, Logan.”
Her voice cracked on the words. Guilt twisted in her gut, sharp as a blade. She couldn’t name what gnawed at her—couldn’t even look it full in the face. And she sure as hell couldn’t hand it to the man who’d stirred it loose.
He didn’t move. Didn’t press.
But his voice, when it came, was quieter than before.
“I never asked you to.”
She looked up, startled by the softness in it.
“I know what this is,” he said. “And I know what it ain’t.”
He stepped back then, just enough to give her breath.
“But you said my name like it meant somethin’. That’s enough for now.”
Then, with a nod that was more farewell than dismissal, he turned and climbed the ladder, boots thudding softly against the rungs, until the light swallowed him whole.
She stood motionless, heart thudding in her chest. Her eyes stung.
She was too overwhelmed—for what was being dragged to the surface, and for his understanding. Far too understanding. He hadn’t pushed. Not once. Hadn’t taken her voice, hadn’t demanded her truth. He’d left it in her hands, where it belonged.
But with the relief came something darker, hauled up from the depths like wreckage from a storm.
The man before—he would’ve demanded her thoughts, pried them loose with threats or silence, twisted her words until they were no longer hers. Every choice, every breath, had belonged to him. She’d lived in the shadow of his will, her own voice buried so deep she’d near forgotten its shape.
And now here was Logan, standing in that same shadowed space—and doing none of it.
He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t reached. Hadn’t tried to take what she wasn’t ready to give.
He’d left it in her hands.
She sank to the floor, sliding down the bulkhead just beside the ladder, her shoulder brushing the rung as she went. Knees drawn tight to her chest. Her cheeks were wet—she couldn’t say when the tears had started. Her breath came shallow, caught between the thrum of her heart and the war in her mind: instinct clawing to retreat, to hide, to obey; something newer, rawer, refusing to yield.
She didn’t hear the boots on the ladder. Not until a rough hand closed gently around hers—still clenched white against her knees.
Her eyes snapped up, wide with shock.
Muldoon.
He crouched beside her, brow furrowed, his grip firm but not unkind.
“Easy now,” he said, voice low. “You’re all right, Sarah.”
She tried to pull a breath, but it caught in her throat, and a sob broke loose before she could stop it.
“Shh, shh—you’re okay.”
He didn’t hush her like a man afraid of noise. He said it like a promise. Like he’d sit there all night if that’s what it took.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, trying to will herself still, but the tremble in her shoulders betrayed her. Muldoon didn’t let go. Just shifted to sit beside her, back against the bulkhead, his hand still wrapped around hers.
They stayed like that for a long while. No questions. No demands. Just the creak of the ship and the quiet rhythm of breath slowly finding its way back.
When her sobs eased to hiccups, he spoke—quiet, restrained.
“Knew I was different from when I was a lad.”
Sarah didn’t lift her head, but she stilled. He leaned back against the wall, letting the moment settle.
“Didn’t have a name for it then. Just knew I looked at boys the way I was told I ought to look at girls. Knew it weren’t safe to say so.”
He let the silence stretch—not to fill it, but to give it space.
“Joined the navy thinkin’ I could outrun it. Thought maybe the sea’d wash it out of me. But it don’t work like that. You can’t scrub off what’s stitched into your bones.”
She turned her face slightly, just enough to glance at him.
“They found out,” he said simply. “Didn’t matter how. Just that they did. I ran. Been runnin’ ever since.”
His voice didn’t tremble, but it was soft with memory. Not shame—just the weight of it.
“I don’t tell you this for pity. And I’m not sayin’ it’s the same as what you’ve carried. But I know what it is to live with a thing you didn’t ask for. To be hurt by someone who thought they had the right.”
He looked at her then, eyes steady.
“And I know Logan. He’s rough, sure. But he’s not cruel. Not to you. I see the way he looks at you, Sarah. Like you’re the first thing that’s made him want to stay.”
Her breath caught.
Muldoon gave a small, crooked smile. “He knows my truth. Knew it before we ever set foot on this ship. I told him straight—told him I liked cock, told him what I’d done, what I’d run from. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn his back. Just said, ‘Well, now I know not to bunk next to you.’ Then handed me a bottle and asked if I snored.”
He gave a soft chuckle, more breath than sound.
“That’s the kind of man he is. He don’t scare easy. And he don’t run.”
He let that settle, then added, quieter, “So if you’re carryin’ somethin’ you think’ll make him turn cruel, it won’t.”
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“You don’t owe him anything. Or me. But if you ever need someone to talk to—someone who knows what it is to carry a secret like a stone in your gut—I’m here. No judgment. No questions.”
He leaned back again, letting the moment breathe.
“’Sides,” he added, voice lightening just a touch, “I’m not much for ladders anyway. Gives me an excuse to sit a spell.”
She leaned into him slightly, resting her head on his shoulder. Her tears were finally at bay, just the occasional stutter of her breath.
“My husband. He was a bastard,” she said at last.
“Then,” her throat clenched around the word, as if her body itself resisted letting it out, “then he took the last thing that would’ve been any light in my life.”
She stopped there. But she knew it was enough. One day, she might tell him the full story. But for now, this was all she could manage.
Muldoon didn’t speak right away. Just gave her hand another small squeeze, steady and sure.
“You’ve said enough,” he murmured. “More than enough.”
He let the words settle, then added, softer still, “And if ever you want to say more—well, I’ll be here. You’ve got my ear, no matter the hour.”
Sarah nodded, her head still resting on his shoulder. The silence between them was no longer heavy. Just full.
But after a moment, Muldoon shifted, casting a glance toward the ladder.
“Hate to break the spell,” he said, voice low, “but we are still in the middle of takin’ a prize. And if the crew starts wonderin’ where we’ve gone, we might find ourselves in a different kind of trouble.”
He looked down at her, one brow raised. “You up for a bit of pretending we were just checkin’ the powder stores?”
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. It didn’t quite reach her eyes—but it was there. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand, breath steadier now. The tears had dried, but the ache lingered—dull and deep.
“Come on then,” he said, rising with a grunt and offering her his hand. “Let’s not give the crew reason to think we’ve eloped.”
She managed the faintest huff of a laugh, then followed him up.
The armoury was quiet when they emerged—dimly lit, the scent of oil and powder thick in the air. Logan stood at his workbench checking a flintlock, but his hands were still. He wasn’t working. Just staring at the weapon like it might offer answers.
He looked up at the sound of boots on the deck.
His eyes went straight to Sarah.
And froze.
She saw the shift in him—first concern, then something darker. His jaw tightened. His shoulders squared. Fury flickered behind his eyes, sharp and sudden.
Muldoon stepped in, calm as ever. Placing an arm around his shoulders and patting his chest.
“She’s all right,” he said, voice even. “No one needs the shit kicked out of them.”
Logan didn’t speak, but his gaze stayed locked on Sarah’s face, reading every trace of what had passed.
Muldoon looked back at her, “she just needed a moment. That’s all.”
A long pause.
“’m okay,” Sarah managed to croak out.
But the words felt thin, brittle. Seeing Logan like that—tense, jaw clenched, eyes burning with the kind of rage that only came from care—it rattled her more than anything she’d just relived in the hold.
That someone might hurt her, and he’d look like that?
She couldn’t bear it.
Not because she feared him. But because the thought of him hurting—because of her—twisted something deep in her chest. Something she didn’t have a name for. Not yet.
She’d spent so long learning to survive indifference, cruelty, control. But this—this fierce, wordless care—was something else entirely. And it scared her more than anything.
Then Logan gave a single, stiff nod. The tension didn’t leave him, but it settled—coiled now, instead of flaring.
And she met his eyes. For the first time, didn’t look away.
QuentinFuckingColdwater on Chapter 6 Sat 03 Jan 2026 02:40AM UTC
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