After finally completing the alterations to the Huntress, which mainly involved removing partitions from the hold to make room for foreseen treasure, Bronte and her shipmates sailed off into the bright morning sun in search of Tortuga and a pirate crew, the wind favoring their voyage. The time passed slowly and it was with great relief they land after five days. The sun sipped below the horizon as they sailed into the harbor. Bronte's spirits rose as she and Sam disembarked to celebrate ashore.

As they entered the nearest tavern, The Listing Sailor, Bronte paused while the familiar odors of sweat, leather, rum and vomit, and the sound of raucous laughter and heavy celebrating washed over her. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, revealing a modest sized room furnished with harvested pieces of dis-serviced ships, full to the brim with filthy, rank, foul mouth pirates accompanied by lewd, brazen women busily pillaging every last piece of eight from the gentlemen of fortune. She grinned and clapped Sam on the back as they moved toward the bar. He ordered a tankard of rum and she made do with warm beer. Sam was already eyeing a scantily clad woman as Bronte found a table with a passed out sailor atop. Grabbing him by the back of his shirt, she pulled him off the grimy table and let him thud to the floor with a feeble groan as she dropped into the chair, nudging him farther away with her boot.

Sam fell into the chair beside her, tangled in a buxom blonde. Disgusting. Bronte resigned herself to a night of celebrating alone. It was just as well. She could scope out potentials from the crowd for her crew. Scalawags of every shape, size, and age were drinking away their latest plunder: Robbery on the high seas was a non-discriminatory profession. It didn't take her long to realize this wasn't the best atmosphere for identifying any talent other than who could drink the most rum and stay upright; which, she thought wryly, wasn't really a bad item for a pirate to have in his credentials.

Abandoning any effort to that end, she reluctantly sat watching Sam as he charmed every woman in the place. They soon left the other men to themselves, fawning over Sam like a school of barracudas. Just when Bronte was sure she couldn't stand another minute of the ridiculousness, Sam realized his captain was companion-less and produced a bosomy red-head seemingly out of thin air.

"Here Bron, take this one. I've got my hands full with Desiree here," Sam generously offered as he flung the woman into her lap.

Eyes darkened with charcoal and cheeks and lips stained poppy clashed brilliantly with her untidy hair. The harlot grabbed onto her like a drowning sailor thrown a life-line. Out of pure reflex Bronte stood to her feet and dumped the woman onto the floor, drawing the attention of the drunkards immediately surrounding her. The red-head stared up at her, her painted lips gaping in surprise at the profound and unquestionable rejection. Blood rushed to Bronte's face, dismayed at suddenly becoming the center of attention and at a loss to explain her behavior. A moment later she scanned the room and was relieved to see most of the buccaneers had quickly returned to their drinks. Sam missed the whole display, having immediately and industriously re-engaged with Destiny, or Desiree...whatever her name was.

There was, however, one set of eyes, glittering with malicious humor, still watching intently from a lonely corner of the tavern. An uneasy feeling crept over her as she met his gaze. She couldn't help staring at the stranger for a prolonged moment, intrigued by an unusual feature. A guttering lantern hanging near his table illuminated dirty-blond hair tied back at his neck, a clean shaven, sharply-angled jaw under a thin-lipped mouth, and a narrow pointed nose. But what caught her by surprise were his eyes. They were each clearly a different color, one a steely blue-gray and the other brown. He shifted and the corners of his mouth turned up wickedly at her extended perusal, a barmaid finally breaking the contact by stepping between them to deliver a bottle. The man spoke to the barmaid briefly and as she turned away Bronte realized he wasn't alone. In the very shadows of the corner sat a woman, wearing black and heavily veiled.

The man held a book open on the table with his non-drinking hand and Bronte wondered why he would choose such a place to read to a lady. Still lying at Bronte's feet, the strumpet made herself known with a few undeserved oaths while delivering a barbed scowl, again drawing puzzled glances from nearby patrons. "Don't much care for redheads," Bronte spat out snidely as she turned sharply for the door. She'd enough celebrating for one night.

***

The next morning the Huntress rocked gently as the sun broke over the horizon and sent a golden shaft through the windows in Bronte's cabin. The diffused light of early morning fell onto the table where she sat trying to block out the noise of the birds boisterously greeting each other while she scratched out an advertisement for a pirate crew and the Articles she wished her crew to abide by. When she was satisfied with the text she rolled up the advertisement and tucked it in into her belt, then climbed into the dinghy and rowed to the dock to post it.

As the weathered dock creaked beneath her feet she passed a line of iron-bound barrels, and a familiar moaning came from behind them. She followed the sound and stopped at the side of a young man lying on his back, one knee bent and an arm covering his face to protect his eyes from the bright rays of the rising sun; a mass of unruly bronze curls covered the man's head.

"Mornin' Sam, good to see you made it outta there in one piece," she remarked caustically.

He moaned again loudly and began to push himself up, then quickly changed his mind and hung his head over the edge of the dock to heave into the bay.

Her own stomach lurched and she turned away covering her face with her hand.

When the sickening noise ceased she faced him again and stuck out a hand, helping him stand unsteadily to his feet.

"Man, you pirates sure know how to have a good time!" he grinned as he leaned against a barrel. His deep umber eyes were hazy and bloodshot.

"I didn't know you'd such a way with the ladies," she answered acidly, her smoky eyes flashing.

"Yep," he bragged unaware of her displeasure, "Now I'm a grown man there isn't a woman alive who can resist the charms of good ol' Sam Rhodes."

Bronte bit back a snort and with great difficulty refrained from commenting.

"Where'd you sneak off to anyway?" he asked straightening himself, leaving one hand on the stout barrel for support as he grimaced at the brightening sunlight. "Wait, don't tell me. You and Scarlet right? Feisty one, eh?" He winked and nudged her on the shoulder. "Hey, what's that?" He pointed at the parchment sticking out of her belt.

Happily latching on to the last question and ignoring the others she answered, "Advertisement for volunteers."

"Volunteers?" Sam asked, momentarily confused. "Oh, right! How many do you think we'll get?" He traded one barrel for another as they moved along.

"I'm hoping for at least thirty. We can make do with less, but the bigger the crew the better our odds in battle."

Grabbing his middle, Sam hit his knees again and she moved on to post the advertisement while he finished emptying his stomach. Afterwards she helped him into the dinghy and then back aboard the Huntress to sleep off his overindulgence.

"Hey can I sleep in that nice big feather bed in the big cabin?" Sam asked hopefully as he fell over the rail in front of Bronte.

"The captain's cabin? No."

"Awww, why not? There's so much room for a fellow to stretch out!" he pleaded.

That was one of Bronte's favorite things about the bed: It accommodated her height, with room to spare. "Captain's cabin, captain's bed. And you're not the captain," she reminded her inebriated friend.

The argument was over quickly as Sam came very near to passing out again. She helped him down to his own cabin and into his smaller berth.

While he was out, she trudged off to verify a piece of valuable information she'd overheard at the tavern. A sailmaker's widow lived nearby and sewed flags for a small sum. Bronte wanted her own flag to fly from her masthead.

She found the widow without trouble and placed the order.

Then she counted out what little was left of the money she and Sam pooled for provisions. There was enough left of her own resources for a pair of boots.

She came across a run-down merchant building and reached out to push the patchwork door open. The boards were mismatched pieces of driftwood. The owner hadn't bothered to even off the tops and bottoms, leaving them jagged and rough. It creaked loudly as she stepped through. The room was cluttered and dusty, with used goods scattered haphazardly about. She was about to turn right back out when she spotted a new looking pair of boots that appeared her size. She glanced around and noticed a fat old man, looking just as patchworked as his door, complete with jagged pant legs, reclining in an overstuffed chair watching her as he smoked a pipe.

"How much for these?" she asked, indicating the boots.

"Six pieces of eight. Fellow who owned um hardly traipsed but a day in 'em"

Bronte realized why all the goods appeared used. This man made his living by stripping the dead of their possessions. His price was fair though, and Bronte had enough for the purchase. Just as she was about to tell him she'd take them, her eye caught a glint of silver in a pile next to them. She pulled out a parcel that held a dozen fine throwing knives. "And these?"

"Four pieces of eight."

Sam could make good use of those knives. And she'd promised to replace the one he'd lost in their getaway. But she couldn't afford the knives and the boots. And she was positively going to have a pair of boots.

A few minutes later Bronte left the shop with her purse much lighter, carrying a parcel of knives, a pair of shoes for Sam, and wearing a worn pair of black leather boots. They were too wide and her feet slopped around in them, and one bore what she thought was a bloodstain, but she didn't care. When she'd more money, she'd have a pair custom made.

The next day at the appointed time Bronte and Sam (who was now heavily armed) made their way through a large gathering of sixty to seventy rough looking buccaneers gathered near the dock.

"This is a better turnout than I'd hoped," Bronte commented, pleased. "We'll conduct interviews and only take the best of the bunch."

Sam nodded in agreement and climbed atop a barrel to address the crowd. He attempted to silence them to no avail and finally put two fingers between his lips and let out an earsplitting whistle. It caught their attention and half the village as well. All eyes stared at the young man as their owners stood without so much as a cough. Bronte blinked purposely as she waited for her ears to stop ringing and watched as he addressed the scurvy looking bunch.

"All those wishing to sign Articles and sail aboard the Huntress with the Infamous Pirate Captain, Bronte Farrow, line up in an orderly fashion!" Sam bellowed.

A murmuring spread through the crowd and someone cried out "I ne'r ear'd o no 'Infamous Cap'n. Farrow'. Where do he be?" He gestured into thin air. The crowd echoed in agreement and craned their necks as they tried to look past Sam.

Sam indicated Bronte, who stood beside his barrel. The pirates looked over the baby-faced captain, then grumbled and swore unhappily (having missed out on good drinking and time with their favorite strumpet) as they sauntered away.

Bronte's heart sank. Pirates were choosy about their captains, wanting to sail under someone who could guarantee a good haul. With youth often came inexperience and she and Sam apparently didn't look very promising. Now what? The crowd was dispersing. She tramped over to a crate and plopped down dejectedly.

Sam, who hadn't given up, was trying to convince the last of the crowd they'd a fine vessel to sail on and her captain could procure them riches beyond their wildest dreams. Bronte rolled her eyes, feeling his efforts were in vain and focused her attention on the various ships drifting in the bay.

A short time later Sam cleared his throat behind her. She turned to face him, surprised to find him standing beside a sea-worthy looking sailor. Her hopes rose.

"Captain, are you ready to take your first interview?" Sam asked proudly.

Peering around Sam, Bronte counted a dozen unpromising-looking men remaining at the docks, all shifting uncomfortably. Sam had a twinkle in his eye. His lip twitched as if he were holding something back and she knew he realized interviews were completely pointless. They'd have to take whoever was left. Well, she thought, why not?

The man at Sam's side was short and stout with dirty black hair sticking out every which way. He looked to be middle aged and wore a thick dark mustache over a yellowed, gap-toothed smile.

"Where do you hail from, sailor?" she asked.

"Nova Scotia. I were a fisherman off the coast most o' me life but I been pirate'n for these last few years," he answered proudly.

"What brought you to these waters?"

"I done it ta escape a nagging wife, Sir," he said matter-of-factly.

"Name and skill?" she questioned, hiding a smirk.

"Cuthbert, I can do what e're ya need, I sailed alone most days when I was fishin'," he answered.

"Fine, step over there, sign the Articles," she said jerking her head toward a makeshift table, glad to have him. She turned to greet the next candidate.

Cuthbert did not step over to the paper.

He hesitated as he shifted from one foot to another.

Bronte turned back to face him.

"Aye?" she queried impatiently.

"Well Cap'n, I was wonder'n iffen you don't mind, iffen I could asks you a few questions?" he said nervously.

"Go ahead," she answered, her eyes narrowed.

"The name o' yer ship, Huntress, don't that mean ta mislead, or like — not real?" he inquired.

"What does that matter?"

"Well sir, I's just thinkin' it an odd name."

She nodded in amusement. "Odd? For a pirate ship? A ship sailing about pretending to be an innocent merchant?"

"Don't ya think another ship would be put off by a name like that? It'd make them suspicious don't ya think?"

"People see what they expect to see. Should we rename her something like Avenger? Or perhaps Viper. Something completely unassuming like—Revenge? Would that put you at your ease?" she quipped sarcastically.

"No!" Cuthbert said, his face paling. "Ever'one knows it be bad luck to change the name of a ship! No respectable sailor would ever crew a vessel tha'd done so!"

Bronte narrowed her eyes, her amusement quickly fading. "Do you wish to sail with us or not?"

"I do! Iffen ya could tell me if a five-dollar gold piece be below the mast?"

"I placed it myself," Bronte assured.

"And ye don't be plannin on leaven port ta'day do ya? Cause ta'day be Friday and it be bad luck ta leave port on a Friday," he continued in earnest.

"We leave tomorrow morning," she said briskly. "Anything else?"

Cuthbert realized wisely his interview was over. He shook his head and took a few hesitant steps before he turned and hurried back.

"By thunder! Your sands are but run, sailor! What is it?" she requested, now thoroughly irritated.

He thrust a grubby hand into an oversized pocket and pulled out a horseshoe. "Would ye hang this in yer cabin? It be bad—" he started as he offered her the shoe.

"—bad luck not to have one?" she finished for him as she grudgingly held out a hand; anything to get the man out of her sight.

He grinned sheepishly but nodded as she took the offered charm and dismissed him.

The next man in line didn't look as promising a sailor, but she, above all people, knew looks were nothing to judge by. The man was old and lean, with chopped gray hair and bushy white eyebrows. His eyes were droopy, his face deeply wrinkled, and his mouth turned down in a perpetual frown.

"Well, old salt, your name and skill?" she asked.

"Names Carter," he said in a deep, weary voice but offered nothing more.

"Skill?" she repeated.

He paused before answering, "Cook."

She sensed he wasn't telling the truth as she studied his downturned face, his eyes staring at her boots. "You're a fool if you think I've no more sight or sense than a blind puppy. Tell me, why's a man your age want to sail on a pirate ship?"

His mouth turned up slightly but somehow he still looked as if he were frowning. "One could ask the same of you—Captain."

Her eyes darkened as she studied him but found no explanation forthcoming. Bronte shrugged her shoulders; it wasn't like she had the masses to choose from anyway. And it would be nice to retire Black from the galley. "Sign the Articles. We sail at dawn."

Next came a cagey looking sailor named Spade, who was assigned master gunner. She also had to make do with a pair of untested teenagers. As the morning wore on she found herself the proud captain of a motley collection of previously rejected sailors with little experience or skill. This was going to be a lot harder than she'd anticipated. Most of the able-bodied crew was not able-bodied at all and would need training. Finally, the last of the group stepped before her.

He stood at perfect attention with his hands behind his back and his chin held high. He was handsome, with chocolate colored eyes and dark hair pulled into a neat pony tail at the nape of his neck. Clean shaven and dressed in a fine-looking navy doublet and dark breeches, he was the only sailor she'd seen today, other than the old 'cook', who wasn't barefoot. His polished ebony knee-high leather boots looked well made and had shining silver buckles. An ornate sword hung in a decorated scabbard at his side; it wasn't a typical pirate weapon.

"Well now. Look at the cut of you! Name and skill, sailor," she requested suspiciously.

"Blake Adams, Sir. Helmsman," he answered in an even tone.

"Helmsman?" she asked skeptically. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword and she ran her thumb over it absently.

"The finest," he answered with confidence.

"Well Blake, we could certainly use a fine helmsman," she smiled. "Tell me Adams, if I asked you to find our Dead Reckoning how would you do it? " She asked him as he followed her gaze to the unlikely bunch of would be pirates chuckling nearby.

He smirked, but stayed at attention as she scrutinized him, while answering precisely, "I would check the ship's log for the compass courses recorded in addition to the ship's speed since we left port. With this information I could tell you how far we were east or west of the prime meridian. And if you wish to know how I'd determine the ship's speed, I'd use the logline. That would be a long rope with knots tied at even intervals along its length and a log attached to the end. After tossing it overboard I'd count the number of knots that paid out as the ship moved forward during a turn of a sand glass." His smirk deepened as he continued. "But that would be the job of your boson, and as I said, I'm a helmsman."

Surprisingly impressed she studied him carefully. This man was no common pirate. But what was he was hiding? Not having the liberty of turning anyone away and, in truth, desperately needing his apparent skill, she gestured toward the rest of the newly gathered crew. He gave her a curt nod as he turned on his heel and stiffly marched in the direction of the Articles.

The men dispersed to make last minute preparations, or, more likely, to spend their last night on land in the various taverns.

She turned to Sam. "Well, we've got ourselves a crew, such as it is. I'll be hanged if there's an honest one in the bunch, except perhaps Cuthbert." She smiled.

"Is honesty a requirement for a pirate?" Sam asked mischievously.

"Nope." Bronte jerked her head as she turned and gathered the Articles each man signed.

"This only makes fourteen," Sam observed, looking over the signatures before Bronte rolled it up.

"That's more than most merchants sail with." She shrugged. "We'll have to rely on more than sheer numbers to overtake them is all."

Something rubbed against her ankles and she looked down to find a fluffy, soot colored kitten purring at her feet. She bent down and scooped it up. "I think there's one more who wants to join up," she grinned as she stroked its mass of silky fur.

"Why, we could use it to swab the deck," Sam commented jovially as they jaunted into town for breakfast.

***

That evening, after they finished loading the last of the dry goods for the hold, she and Sam hiked up the narrow stony path to the sailmaker's widow's home.

It was a small, plain house, sitting near the coast that looked as if it might blow away with the next big gust.

"What's here now?" Sam asked as he stumbled over a large stone in the path.

"Wait and see," Bronte said, smiling with anticipation.

She'd thought long about what sort of ensign she wanted to fly and decided on one which would incorporate both her and Sam's weapons of choice. It was to have a cutlass flanked by two flying daggers, shown white on a sable field. She'd paid the widow ahead for it and the old woman told her it'd be ready tonight.

At last they arrived at the cottage door and knocked.

"Enter," said a high feeble voice.

Bronte pushed the door open and Sam followed. The room was clean and simply furnished. The little old woman sat in a rocker near the fire, darning stockings.

Bronte noted the folded piece of fabric atop a nearby table.

"Is it finished then?" she asked the woman.

The woman nodded once and continued with her darning.

Bronte glanced at Sam, who shrugged. Bronte stepped toward the table and picked up the fabric, shaking out the folds to view the design.

She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion and looked up to see Sam, studying it with a tilted head.

It bore a long white rapier standing on end, centered in a sable field, topped with a swept hilt and large crosspiece. On either side of the crosspiece was a long dagger, points directed outward. The overall impression was that of a large cross with a crown atop.

This must be someone else's.

"You've mixed my order with another's," Bronte commented.

"Nay. That's yours." The old woman continued to rock and darn, nodding affirmatively.

"And I'm a lackwit Dutchman. You've made a mistake," Bronte argued.

"That's your mark. No mistake." She frowned and nodded, never taking her wrinkled eyes off her work.

Bronte held up the Jolly Roger. She would have demanded the woman make her another but if she wanted to leave at dawn, there would be no time. Scowling and thinking she should at least take her money back, Bronte looked again at the woman's patched clothes and sparse home and decided to be done with the mess. As Bronte stomped outdoors she shivered involuntarily. Something about the widow reminded Bronte sharply of a woman named Alice. Someone Bronte had left far in the past.

Sam followed looking prepared. "What then, was that about?"

Bronte scowled back. "When I told my design she nodded and named the fee. I didn't realize she'd no more sense for following directions than a blind monkey!"

Clutching the blundered Jolly Roger in one fist, Bronte turned and rambled down the path, kicking at the stones and muttering under her breath. Sam wisely kept a few paces behind and out of the way of any projectiles.