Rafe

"Johnny!" I call. "Where the hell are you, man?"

It is a fine summer's day in Port Criswell, the sea breeze blowing strong and straight across the Channel. My ship is freshly repaired, and hopeful-looking sailors line the docks, waiting for my signal.

All that is missing is my first mate, the drunken scumbag.

"Johnny!" I roar. "Get your bony arse out here before I kick you where the sun don't shine!"

A tousled head appears portside.

"All right, all right," Johnny grumbles, clambering over the side. I know he was drinking until dawn, but there is no point in me saying anything. He has to go to hell in his own way, and I in mine.

However, he slides down the ropes and lands square on his feet on dry land, so his head can't be that bad. "Reporting for duty, Cap'n," he says and spits to one side.

"Take a look, then, go on." I jerk my head at the assembly of men in front of my ship, the Merry Magdalena. "See what you think."

"What I think?" Johnny scoffs and spits again. "What I think is that we have ourselves the worst collection of drunken landlubbers I ever seen in me life. Me whole life."

"Oh, you're one to talk," jeers an impudent ginger near the head of the line. "I saw you stumblin' down the main street last night, singing dirty songs. Yes, you're a fine one to talk about anyone else being drunk."

"Here!" bellows Johnny. "Look here, don't you give me no sauce! You're a bloody, blasted mutineer, that's what you are! I know your kind, and I wouldn't trust you as far as I can throw you, you little spawn of Satan!"

"Well, how can I be a mutineer if I ain't even been hired yet?" the young redheaded lad cries out. He sends an appealing glance my way. "Why don't you take me on first, Captain, and then you'll see what I'm made of? I used to be a Navy midshipman before I fell on hard times. I know my way around a ship and work hard for my wages."

Johnny starts towards the boy in a threatening way. I pull him back by his garter straps before he can commit violence.

"Come on, Johnny," I say into his ear. "Give the lads a chance, eh? We need a fresh crew, and you know we can't afford to stay ashore much longer."

"Oh, aye," sighs Johnny. "I know that. But I hold and maintain that that boy is a rapscallion, a scoundrel, and a hellhound."

"Still," I say, "he might be good in a fight."

"Well, it's that red hair, ain't it," says Johnny, his voice dropping to a growl. "Them that has flamin' hair always are born fighters. Well, I'll take a look, but I make no promises, mind you."

"All right, but make it fast," I mutter, looking around. I don't like this place.

"You're the boss," says Johnny, and lopes off down the line.

And that's the trouble right there. I am the boss, whether I like it or not.

Years ago, when Johnny and I were only little boys picking pockets around the London docks, I told him what to do, who to go up to for rich pickings, and when to run.

All these years later, nothing has changed. We left the docks and got our own ship, but we're still stealing from people richer than us, and I still have to tell Johnny what to do. He just wouldn't know otherwise.

Unlike me, Johnny never had any book learning. My aunt and uncle—who were supposed to raise me—at least taught me some letters and a little arithmetic before they left me at the orphanage in Whitechapel and drove off.

By the time I ran away from the orphanage, which was only a clearing house for chimney sweeps when all was said and done, I had given up on being a gentleman. I met Johnny for the first time near the Golden Cross, a posting house for flash nobs, where I watched him take a gold sovereign, a watch fob, and a fine handkerchief off a rich drunk coming out of the public tavern.

In no time at all, Johnny, a lad barely older than myself and of pure Cockney stock, was teaching me how to help him. In time, I taught him how to steal even better.

He was the brother I always wanted, who stood shoulder to shoulder with me when we joined up as cabin boys on a smuggler's ship off the coast of Cornwall.

And now he is stuck with me, and I am with him till death or the seas part us.

Still and all, he is a drunk disgrace, and everyone can see it. It's just that he is also very, very good at his job.

He staggers down the line back towards me, pointing. "You. You. Not you. You, fuck off. And you. Can you climb?"

"Aye, surely," says the beetle-browed gentleman so addressed. "I used to be on the crow's nest on the Sweet Patricia, Cap'n Rackham's ship that was."

"Thought I saw you somewhere," says Johnny. "Didn't I kill your first mate, or was that someone else?"

"No, it was you, Mr. Miller," says the other man. "I remember distinctly because I seen you cut old Eddie's throat open with your cutlass."

"Oh, yeah," says Johnny, smiling. "That was me, all right.

"Well, then, you know me, and you know my captain. Cap'n Peterson over there and I have been sailing together for donkey's years, and we haven't lost a fight yet. Any man who comes aboard with us knows we don't surrender, we're not miserly with wages, and there'll be plenty of time ashore after a good run.

"But if you're with us, you're with us. I'm not havin' any yellow-bellied cowards refusing to stand and fight when needed, and if I see anyone not following orders, I'll throw you overboard myself and to hell with you."

The men all nod, impressed. It is a good speech. I have heard it many times before, and I know it works. Johnny is a hard taskmaster but fair.

And I am Captain Rafe Peterson, only twenty-three, but so weather-beaten and rough around the edges that the proper little gentleman who cried to sleep on his first night at the orphanage seems to belong to someone else's life now.

"But first," continues Johnny, "you all know what kind of ship this is and what kind of life you'll see onboard. Some of you may not know that we have a little custom of our own before we set sail."

He begins to take off his rough, homespun jacket. The ginger lad suddenly acquires a very thoughtful, slightly worried expression.

"According to the ancient rules of pirates across the seven seas," says Johnny loudly, "every man aboard has to earn it. Fight!"

He points at the ginger lad, who takes a step back.

"What, me?" he says nervously. "Fight you, you mean?"

"Who else?" roars Johnny. "Do you see anyone else around here waiting to get their fists up for you, you dunce?"

And just like that, I am transported back to the little jetty in New South Wales, where I fought my way aboard the Hornet under Captain Manning's command. I still have the scar on my wrist where his first mate swiped at me with a bone knife.

It is a test of manhood, some say. Others will claim that a pirate needs to spill blood on land; otherwise, he'll have bad luck at sea.

People say many stupid things, I reflect, but Johnny likes to fight, and I need to know which of these men has courage enough to face the ocean storms and defend themselves under enemy attack, so I say nothing. I just stand there, my scarred hands stuffed in my pockets, and let Johnny have his fun.

None of it matters, anyway. Johnny won't kill anyone if he doesn't have to, and it's a useful loyalty test, at any rate. So I let my gaze drift to the ocean, the only place where I have ever truly felt at home.

Though I don't like being so close to England, things on the Continent being as they are, it's safer to head south.

I like the south. It's warmer, the women are better-looking, and sometimes the liquor hauls alone are worth their weight in gold, especially if we manage to trap a cargo run out to the colonies.

I remember the warmth of the South Sea Islands, the searing heat at Cape Horn, the coconut trees in the Caribbean, and the smell of sandalwood in Malabar.

I close my eyes, thinking. With a choice of anywhere in the world, where do I want to go this time?

We would have to follow the currents, of course, and there is always the danger of running into British Navy ships along the way, or one of Napoleon's lot, which is always worse.

But there are still plenty of nice little ports to dock at as we drift downwards to the equator. I do some mental calculations, the number of the crew against how long our water and food rations will likely last this time.

Cyprus. We could dock in Cyprus. Though I've never been, I am told it is a lovely place. Always a first time.

In the background, I can hear the dull thud of Johnny's fist hitting some poor unfortunate sailor's chin. I ignore it. Cyprus. It's beautiful in the springtime.

What adventures might we find?