Blunderbuss Aboard
“Moulin-” one of the pirate crew burst into the supply cabin, breathless. “Moulin, ship to port.”
Thaddeaous Moulin sat up from the crates he had burrowed himself behind, knocking over an empty rum bottle in his haste. “Damn,” he cursed.
“Goddamnit, Moulin,” the pirate rushed into the darkened room, following the sound of Moulin’s hazy voice through the haphazardly stacked booty. “You’d better not still be drunk. Griff left yesterday already, and we’ve got a ship approaching-”
“Yes, yes, I heard already, port side,” Moulin groused, slowly unfurling all of his broad frame and wincing at the rush of blood to his listless limbs. “Well, Antoinio, go on and greet them already.”
Antonio twisted to leave the stifling room.
“No-wait, wait. What colors are they flying?” Moulin asked, rubbing at his throbbing temples.
Damned rum.
Antonio, irritated. “English.”
“Ah, I suppose that changes things.”
Moulin climbed over the crates, cursing, then abruptly stopped and sat on one of the nearest crates instead.
Antonio gave Moulin a quick look-over. Only ever handsome, Moulin’s platinum blond hair had become stuck-up from a combination of sea salt and a nervous habit. His normally clear and bright blue eyes were hazy and bloodshot, and he sat now dressed only in his dirty canvas trousers, having lost his shirt, sash and head bandana somewhere in the cabin.
In short, the man looked like hell. Which was saying something; Moulin was easily one of the most handsome devils that had ever become a pirate.
Antonio cleared his throat, irritated with Moulin’s unusual sloppiness.
“Oh give me a moment,” Moulin groused.
“We haven’t a moment, Moulin. The crew didn’t even want me to come and get you, but they shot a cannon straight at us-”
“An English ship did?” Moulin asked, whipping his head up. “Pray, what flag are we flying again?”
“Spanish.”
“Damn.” Moulin pondered this for a moment. “Did I not say to change our colors to English once we reached Boston?”
“Aye, ye did,” Antonio agreed with a low growl. “But you’d sent Sloan to do it.”
Moulin groaned and tipped his head into his hands. Hazy still from the bottle, and love-lorn all the same, Moulin’s thoughts moved far too slowly for the risk he and the other pirates were facing. 1715 was not the year to try and pretend friendship between the English and Spanish. The cannon-fire from the English ship was proof enough of that.
“Moulin. . .” Antonio prodded.
“Yes, yes- I know. In times of action, I am the captain, and I’d better damn well come up with something to save our necks. I know!” Moulin jabbered, trying to buy himself time. “Fine, very well. I’ve a costume and a letter for this- go on and let them board. I’ll clear it up in a jiffy, and set things to rights.”
Antonio gave Moulin a stern look. “I know it’s harder than you care to admit with Griff leaving and all, but you’ve still a duty to this crew. The lads and I will want to have a counsel after this.”
Moulin sighed, stood up, and stripped away his trousers. “I’m sure you lot will. And I will apologize and clean myself up and all that. But I couldn’t I have had just one full day of moping about?”
“You were the one who broke your oath to Griff,” Antonio reminded cruelly.
Moulin shot the other man a dark look. “You’d rather I left in the middle of a campaign, after being voted as captain?”
“There’s always another captain to be voted in.”
Moulin’s face flushed a bright red beneath his ever-present sunburn and his blue eyes glinted into hard steel. “Get out.”
“Gladly.”
Antonia made sure to slam the cabin’s door shut behind him, and marched out to the main deck where the men on board sat in eerie stillness.
“Well?” One of the pirates asked. “Have we still a captain?”
Before Antonio could answer, another cannon boomed out across the waters of Cape Cod, and the pirates all braced themselves to see where the iron ball would land.
Ocean spray arced out from the waters, liberally dousing the deck, but leaving the ship mercifully undamaged.
“Where the hell’s Moulin?” One of the crew asked. “Better not be soused!”
“I’m perfectly sober now,” Moulin roared, rushing out from the supply cabin. “So put your curses to rest for now!”
Moulin appeared back on the deck, dressed ostentatiously in the flamboyant fashion of an English merchant trying too hard to be mistaken for a member of the landed gentry. His feet were already pinched by the buckled heels of his shoes, and he was sweating in earnest now beneath the heft of the wing and blasted layers of shirt, cravat, waistcoat and coat of the damnable costume.
“Pull the colors!” Moulin shouted at the men. “Wave the white flag and for fuck’s sake let me do the talking!”
The men jumped into action, whistling and shouting at one another to do as Moulin had ordered. Moulin went over to the port side, squinting against the blaring white sun to peer across the waters.
Moulin’s unease only grew. The ship was heavily powered, sleek, and already with its cannons aiming out from their tight windows along the ship’s sides. An aggressive approach, to say the least.
The ship raced towards Moulin’s, sails in full furl. Seeing its quick approach, Moulin carefully disciplined his face into a careful anxiety and began to wring his hands in a way he normally never would.
In short time the attacking ship pulled beside Moulins, and on the upper decks he spotted a man dressed much like he was; a graish red coat, black curling periwig and clean, white stockings.
Allow us to board!” A voice boomed out from across the ship.
“By all means!” Moulin answered. “Send your board!”
In short work, a board had breached the small gap between the two ships, and Moulin was surprised to see the man in the red coat crossing the board first. Carrying a blunderbuss no less, an unwieldy monstrosity of a firearm that would upend the man into the drink if he weren’t careful.
Moulin’s unease grew.
From personal experience, Moulin knew the navy captains much preferred the safer distance on board their own ship. And no one would carry a blunderbuss with them across the boards.
Nonetheless.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Moulin beamed, rushing forward to shake the man’s hand. The man declined the greeting. “Oh, and I do apologise for the misunderstanding- you see we’ve just returned from the Carrib, and as I’m sure you understand the Spaniards simply abound in those waters, and I haven’t much the firepower-”
The stranger sneered at Moulin’s greeting and only regrrpped his weapon. Moulin peered closely at the man, masking his evaluation with a wide-eyed sort of anxiety he supposed a lesser man would have in the face of someone he assumed was superior to him.
There was something familiar about the stranger. He had a boldly hooked nose that protruded from an otherwise unremarkable face. Yet, there was something in the shade of the watery blue eyes that niggled at the back of Moulin’s memory.
“I am seeking one Captain Moulin,” the man announced obstinately, his grating on Moulin’s hangover.
Moulin hesitated, but had the eerie inkling the man already knew who he was. “I am Moulin, and you are?”
“Baron Pierrepont,” the man answered with a malicious smile. “And you are under arrest for the kidnapping of one Sloan of Ardglass.”
Pierrepont made a signal to the men who had crossed with him, and they rushed at Moulin, wicked sparks of violence gleaming in their eyes.
But Moulin was no new sailor.
In the blink of an eye, Moulin had withdrawn the rapier that came with his costume and sliced the throat of his first attacker. The next man had little chance either; Moulin pinned the rapier through the man’s entrails and twisted, kicking him to the deck as he writhed in pain.
But before Moulin could throw himself against Pierrepoint, he stopped, dead cold.
Pierrepoint was already there, the cold end of his bludnerbuss snug against Moulin’s sweating forehead.
“Easy mate,” Moulin said, his voice soft.
“Halt, or the captain dies!” Pierrepoint roared.
“Fire that thing, and we’ll all die!” One of the pirates shouted.
“I despise you lot,” Pierrepont snapped, his eyes going from Moulin to the crew of wretched pirates standing behind their captain. “I despise all of your kind; you pirates are the disgusting collection of the worst refuse of our race. Spineless, honorless and worthless liars who scheme and connive at every opportunity. Yet, such are the twists of life that I find myself forced to align myself with such excrement as yourselves. Three months ago you kidnapped my nephew, Sloan of Adrglass. Having once been in the thrall of your kind before, I can easily imagine the hells you put that dear boy through-”
“Other way ’round there, mate!” One of the pirates cut in.
Pierrepont paused.
Moulin’s heart did too. His crew never could shut up when it mattered.
“Beg your pardon?” Pierrepont asked, his face crumpling in confusion.
“You have it!” Another answered.
Moulin groaned while the rest of the crew had a good laugh at the maniac’s expense.
“Explain yourselves or the captain is dead!” Pierrepont shouted, his voice higher.
“Oh, ease up on Moulin there, mate,” the ship’s navigator said too easily. “He’s not really our captain anyway. And he’s still half-drunk.”
Moulin began to pray. Violently.
“Your Sloan’s gone, mate, just missed him!” Another of the crew shouted.
“What?”
The crew began to take their turns shouting at Pierrepont.
“And good riddance too!” “That boy was a Jonah if ever there was!” “Oh aye, that bit with setting the kitchen afire was problem enough-” “About blasted us all to the deep depths-”
“Enough!” Pierrepont snapped, his face turning beet red. “Where the hell is my nephew?”
“Boston!” The crew answered as one.
“What?” Pierrepont asked, stunned.
“I sent him to Boston,” Moulin said slowly, his voice dry and rough. “To find a new apprenticeship.”
“A-a…what?” Pierrepont’s mouth gaped open and shut, and he stared down at Moulin as though he’d sprouted a second head.
“Apprenticeship,” Moulin repeated.
“You sent Sloan. . .to Boston. . .to find an apprenticeship?”
Moulin licked his lips, his throat nearly too dry for this sort of conversation. “He wasn’t exactly, ah, fit for the pirating life. And, well, we couldn’t just abandon him after kidnapping him and all.”
Pierrepont’s eyes swivled from Moulin to his crew, then back to Moulin again. “I’m sorry, this-why? What the hell kind of pirates are you?”
“The normal kind,” Moulin lied.
Pierrepont stared at Moulin a little longer, then shook his head and addressed himself to the crew. “I cannot comprehend what evil you intend for my nephew, but I can swear to you that you will be duly recompensed for your wicked ways. But time is of the essence, and I must find my nephew before any more harm should befall him. Surrender your captain to my custody now, and I swear on my word as a gentle-”
“Surrendered,” Antonio answered immediately. “Agreed, crew?”
“Aye!” “Ye!” The crew answered in quick succession. “Ain’t personal, Moulin, but you ain’t been worth it since Griff left.”
Moulin tried not to take it personally.
“I wasn’t done-never mind,” Pierrepont said, ill-prepared for the practical nature of the crew.
“Don’t worry, Moulin,” Antonio soothed as Moulin’s hands were being tied behind his back. “This way you can find Griff.”
