"My good Quartermaster, have you the shares divided?"

"That I do, good Captain!" Sam teased back. "We've only to add the price for the cargo. And what'll you be doing with your riches?"

"We'll stop at our cove, refill the water and do a little hunting." She dropped her voice, "I'm going to leave a good chunk of my gold there."

"Why? I plan to live it up! It's not like we won't be getting more!"

"Pirates aren't envied for their longevity, you know," Bronte reminded.

"If that's the case I'll be doubly sure to spend every last shilling! Can't take it with you!"

"All the same. I'm putting some of mine away for another time. Someday I may find myself out of the pirating business."

"As you will! Then to Curacao?"

"Aye, we head south, then west through the dragon's mouth, to Curacao."

"What's Curacao like?"

"Only the greatest free port in the Caribbean! Anything can be bought or sold, regardless of supply and demand—though sometimes you sacrifice price."

"Sounds all right," Sam said, seemingly only moderately impressed.

"And Sam, a third of the buildings are taverns ... that never close!"

"Now you're talking!" He turned toward the mast. "Trim those sails, boys! Oy! Patch that tear in the main! We'll never get anywhere that way!" he called as he jogged briskly away to see the task done.

***

The Huntress put in Willemstad Bay, Curacao, the prevailing winds helping it into the natural harbor. They'd made the required stop at their cove and now, with the object of their hearts desire in site, the air of exuberance aboard the ship was palpable.

"Tuck those sails away, nice and clean. I know you're anxious for shore but we've got to take care of our ride first!"

"Aye aye, Captain," came the reluctant cry from Bronte's excited crew.

"Captain, who's gonna stay with the ship? How long do we get?" asked the freckled-faced Kinney.

Bronte, having already discussed it with Sam, didn't have to think about her answer. The two biggest problems going ashore were: one, you never knew if the ones you let off would come back, and two, you never knew if the ones you kept aboard would stay aboard.

Normally the crew wouldn't return until their money went dry. Sometimes they didn't come back at all and it was anyone's guess why. Could be they got a better offer from another ship; or they might be just plain dead, killed in a brawl, or robbed.

"Sam and I will go ashore to sell the cargo, then we'll divide each man his share." Cheers greeted the announcement. They'd stay aboard at least until they got their money. "Then we'll draw lots for the watch." Bronte also had every intention of staying aboard most of the time herself, so she wouldn't have to worry about a watch not reporting. "Each man takes one turn on watch; that'll give us two weeks ashore. Then we're off for more pillaging!" Cheers sounded again. "If any man runs out of coin before we're through the rotation, he can wait aboard."

Bronte retreated to her cabin to ready herself for the trip ashore. She hadn't hidden all of her gold and had definite plans regarding what remained (a new wardrobe top on the list) and was as anxious as the rest.

As Bronte and Sam stepped from the longboat the sheer activity of the port was overwhelming. People of every nationality filled the streets. Slaves (recent purchases most likely) paraded past them on the docks and were loaded into boats to be taken who knows where. Cages of monkeys and colorful parrots perched on stacks of crates and barrels, likening it to the silhouette of a domed cathedral with stained glass. Men wearing the most beautiful silks, laces and velvets paraded past them busily making transactions.

In this environment they waded through the merchants and found prospective buyers. They hadn't even brought the cargo ashore and it was already being bartered over. They quickly agreed to return with the goods in question before prices were agreed upon.

"Do you really think, after the money's divided, we'll see any of the crew again?" Sam asked on the return trip with the loot.

"No," Bronte said truthfully. "That's why I'll be staying aboard myself."

"You won't need me, right?" Sam asked with a hopeful grin.

"You're welcome to throw your money away as long as you wish. Now, what do you say to seeing what price we can procure from that cargo?"

After a long day of haggling they returned, Bronte in awe of Sam's uncanny salesmanship of the ill-gotten goods. He acquired near market price for much of it. He'd done some hasty math before their return and the number in each share was astounding. They only needed to divide the shares by twenty-two, due to the small number of crew aboard. She and Sam would get two shares each, Carter as surgeon one and a half; Blake Adams, promoted to sailing master, and Cuthbert to boatswain, the same; and Kinney, the cabin boy, got half a share. The remainder of the men got one share. Disabled pirates were paid a predetermined sum according to what type of damage they received (so much for a right arm, a little less for a left and so on) but none had been seriously injured and little needed to be spent on medicine. The only thing they needed to subtract was re-provisioning costs.

Sam looked pleased with himself, as well he should, as he vaulted over the rail and stood on deck before the assembled pirates. Sam unrolled the parchment he'd recorded the sales of goods on, cleared his throat, and with great ceremony read aloud the tally. "Twelve casks of pepper, sold for £2,400!" The men cheered. "Three casks of ginseng, £4,800!" The cheers grew louder. "Two casks of cloves, £800." Only a few cheers came out this time, but Sam was undaunted. "One crate of Turkish rugs, £1,000." They were getting half-hearted applause now, but Bronte knew they'd be cheering again momentarily. Sam was saving the best for last. "One purse of precious gemstones, (courtesy of one Frenchman) £2,000. One crate of pewterware, £600, one crate of 200 European books £1,200...." The men got restless, waiting for the final count, and one unwisely tried to snatch the parchment out of Sam's hand. Bronte cocked her pistol. Sam would have his moment. He continued to read. "Fourteen slightly used silks," (some of the men laughed) "£8,000!" They were cheering again. "Ten pounds of pearls, £4,000." The men were quieting now; they knew he was coming to the silver and gold bars from the wreck. "One thousand, one hundred twenty pounds of silver, £56,000." They held their breath. "Twenty-five bars of gold, and 18 disks weighing five pounds each," he paused and looked up—the men were all but drooling. "£64,500." There was reverent silence. "Now, after we add in the twelve hundred pieces of eight, subtract for refitting and provisions—"

"'ow much do we get?" someone interrupted impatiently.

"Aye, what's our share?"

Sam held up a hand to silence the group. "Each share will be the equivalent of eight-thousand, five-hundred and sixty doubloons to be drawn from—!" The last half was for the most part drowned out. Sam would have to tell them again which bank had their line of credit—another fine piece of negotiation on Sam's part.

Men whooped, jumped, did strange half-cartwheels and at least one man outright slugged another.

Bronte was thrilled. She'd led a successful expedition, and her reputation as a good captain would spread throughout the pirate world. Though the sum was large, she knew the men would have no trouble disposing of the income. Some might decide to 'retire', but she doubted it. Pirates were notorious for 'living for the day, for you might hang on the morrow.'

***

Bronte and Sam managed to contain the crew long enough to draw lots before they disembarked en masse. The two stood enraptured by the amusing scene: pirates climbed down the accommodation ladder right over the top of other pirates, crammed themselves into already full boats, and argued over who could row fastest. The ship was barren in moments. They themselves jumped into the last boat and were on their way.

She and Sam stood on the fringe and looked into the booming town.

"Where you off to?" Sam asked.

"I've to purchase provisions for our next venture. Then, to have a pair of good leather boots made. Maybe two. And I'll have a greatcoat tailored. After that a new hat. Plumed I think. Then—"

"Hey, enough already. Sorry I asked. A day filled with the most boring shopping." Sam held his hands out in front of him.

"I take it you're not coming?"

"Definitely not. I'll be too busy having fun!"

"Suit yourself. We'll meet up later."

"Oy," Sam called back after they parted, "pick up a couple of shirts for me while you're at it!" Without waiting for an answer he turned and trotted down the street toward a likely-looking tavern.

Bronte shook her head making her own way down merchant's row. True to account, absolutely nothing couldn't be purchased here. She stepped into a cobbler shop. Inside was an aged man with thinning hair. His shoulders were hunched as he stood over a large piece of leather, tracing around the edge of a pattern.

"How much for a pair of tall leather boots?" Bronte asked the man.

Without turning to face his customer or pausing in his work he answered, "Four gold doubloons."

"That's robbery!"

The man casually turned his head and gave Bronte a cursory glance. "I expect you'd know something about that, wouldn't you, laddie?" He returned to his work. "I don't think the gold will mind being passed from one thief's hand to another."

"But that's over twice the average rate! I'll give you that for two pair," Bronte offered.

The cobbler snorted. "Seven for two pair."

"Six. That'll be my last offer. And throw in a sword belt and scabbard."

The man turned around to fully face his customer now. He looked impatient and had his mouth half open to say what was probably a refusal, but he reconsidered abruptly when he realized Bronte had pulled a sword from a sash at her waist; a new rapier she'd only just purchased. She'd seen the beautifully swept hilt and picked it up to examine it. When she held it out, the balance perfect and the handle fitting her hand nicely, she had to have it. The cobbler closed his lips in a thin line and was silent.

She held the blade out as if she were inspecting it, turning it this way and that to catch the light. "Something that'll do this fine blade justice. All right, then?"

The man understood this method of bargaining and looked nervous now. Fine by her.

"Have a seat, sir, and I'll measure your foot."

He pried off the under-sized boot, complained he couldn't take a pattern from it, and scratched down some numbers.

"I'll start on them straight away. Come back in a week."

He turned his back, pulling out various roles of leather, rejecting some and accepting others. Bronte pulled on the old boots and stood, readjusting her sword.

She'd no idea if he was cheating her for time, but she was happy with the agreed price, and since she'd already planned to stay at anchor, didn't mind the wait.

"Do you know of an honest tailor?"

The man humphed, but pointed to his right. "Few buildings down you'll find a tailor."

Bronte spent the day wading through fine velvets, linens, and wools. By the day's end her wardrobe was much larger and her pocket much lighter. Still, she was satisfied with the respect her blade accorded her. She placed her a black hat, plumed with red, on her head. It matched her new linen coat, black trimmed with crimson. She thought herself an imposing figure.

After paying a lad to take the rest of her goods to the ship, which included a set of beautiful inks so she could pass the time at anchor illuminating the complete chart of the Caribbean she'd drawn, she went in search of Sam. There was no telling what sort of trouble he might get himself into without her.

As she ventured into the less seemly part of town the company grew courser. A small man staggered toward her.

His clothes draped on his frame, making Bronte wonder what kept them from falling as he zigzagged indirectly into her path. That she stood in his way seemed of little importance; he slammed right into her, throwing clumsy arms around her for support. The man, at least a head shorter than Bronte, studied his champion. He craned his head and grinned lopsidedly.

"'ello, brother. Name's Ronald," he slurred, grasping tightly to the front of her new coat to keep himself upright.

She glanced around, looking for a means of detaching the rum-soaked fellow. He positively reeked of the beverage. "Ronald," she said, more annoyed than anything else, "kindly remove your hands from my coat."

He took a second to decipher her request and then, with many apologies, righted himself, mostly. He threw an arm high over her shoulder in a conspiratorial kind of way. Bronte, sighing, put at arm around the drunk's waist and edged toward a structure to deposit the poor sot. If she left him in the street he'd likely get trampled by the crowd.

"Can I ask you sompin, gov'ner?" he slurred.

She panted a little, as she tried to pull his independently-minded legs along. He was heavier than he looked. "Aye. What is it?"

"Why," he struggled for words, "why do thieves steal gold?"

She looked at him askance. They were almost to the building.

"No, really," he continued, his words thick and over-enunciated. "Can't eat it. Can't drink it. Doesn't keep you warm on a cold night."

They'd reached the wall and she'd started to transfer his weight to it, but paused, considering his interesting theology. "With gold, you can buy those things," she challenged.

She successfully maneuvered his back to the wall and was free of his cleaving weight. He put both hands loosely on her shoulders. "But don't you see? They're thieves. Why don't they just steal that?"

Bronte paused, actually seeing a bit of truth in his befuddled logic. She looked him in the eyes—clear, nut brown eyes that were bright, with a twinkle of mischief—not bleary with drink.

He smiled. "They steal gold," he righted himself and before she'd a chance to react he darted into the crowd and shouted, "because they can!" He disappeared quicker than a slippery eel from a fisherman's hands.

Bronte stared after him, confused. And then, when realization finally hit her she felt for her purse. It was gone. She took two steps in the direction he'd gone, drawing her pistol, but it was too late. He'd been swallowed by the human menagerie.

There hadn't been much left in it anyway, she thought with disgust. Most of what she'd brought for the day was spent; the rest was tucked safely aboard her ship. Thieves she thought wryly, not at all unaware of the irony. Still, she had to admire his ploy. Perhaps she wasn't so imposing a figure, after all.

As she looked around she noticed a concentration of women centered around a figure bearing a crown of loose copper curls. At least Sam was having a good time ashore.

***

A week later Christmas came, and though never spending time on frivolities or any such nonsense, Bronte did like to raise a glass for the occasion. It was a time that reminded her of the family she'd left behind. Her mother always tried to make the holiday special for Bronte and she remembered the occasion as a tiny pocket of happiness in her otherwise dreadful childhood. She was in search of Sam when she came across the cobbler's shop and decided to see if the bootmaker was in. Inside, Bronte stood over a grisly scene. On a shelf, with her name pinned on, was a leather scabbard and belt, and one pair of tall leather boots. Opposite was the cobbler's bench, bearing one very dead cobbler, slumped over what she could only assume were her second pair. The cobblers blood soaked into the unfinished leather. He appeared to have been tortured. Bronte thought the poor man must've tried to overcharge the wrong person. Celebrating no longer on her mind, Bronte grabbed the finished boots and headed back to the ship.

As Bronte pushed open the door to her cabin she paused, gasping as her eyes adjusted from the daylight to the dim cabin. Inside, floating gently through the air, were hundreds of ghostly fragments. Puzzled, she stepped inside. A piece of debris fluttered in front of her nose. She grabbed it and held it up. It was a feather. As her eyes grew accustomed, they revealed a cabin full of feathers. Bronte looked toward her bed, and there in the middle of it, sitting atop a deflated pillow amidst a white cloud, was Fortune. The feline looked supremely satisfied as she licked the claws on her front paw.

As her ire rose Bronte took a swift step toward the beast, then stopped. Her foot had fallen upon a book, splayed out on the floor, it's spine in the air. The sole was littered with books, ripped from their case. Her charts, too, were thrown carelessly about.

"BLACK!" she shouted as she stepped out of the cabin. "BLACK! FRONT AND CENTER!"

He'd stayed aboard, not wishing to try his luck with the cutthroats roaming Willemstad. He emerged, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and stood before her with his head bowed.

"Who's watch today?" So far Bronte had been pleasantly surprised none shirked guard duty. She'd counted on the same thing today. She was angry at herself for that. At least she hadn't hidden her money in the cabin, though the thief obviously exhausted all efforts to find any.

"Blake," answered the albino softly.

"Blake?" Of all people, she'd not expected him to be the one derelict.

"Aye. Switched off with Jackson after you left," he mumbled.

That didn't make any sense. "Well, where is he? Below?"

"No sir. No one below but me."

"You hear anything, anyone who shouldn't be here?"

"No Capt. Farrow. I was a'sleepin'." He sounded apologetic.

She felt guilty for her harshness toward him. She knew he slept during the daylight hours to stay up through the night. But she could hardly believe Blake was responsible for the wreckage in her cabin.

"Stuff all those feathers back in that pillowbere," she ordered, trying unsuccessfully to keep the ire out of her voice. That irritated her even more. She bent down and picked up a book, stared at it briefly, then flung it at the bulkhead.

***

The following week they prepared to leave Willemstad harbor. Nearly all the original crew drifted back after plowing through their treasure, and they'd procured ten additional sailors. Spade had reportedly been killed in a bar fight, and another decided to stay in port. Blake had simply disappeared. Neither Bronte, nor Sam knew what to make of it.