Chéri

Ch.4: Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle o' Bum

"Under the authority of his majesty, King George IV, prepare to be boarded!"

The Marauder's Mistress was cast in a distinctly British shadow. The vessel to its east was massive, with lines of cannons pointing out from it like teeth from a grinning skull. Its hull was painted in proud blues and reds, the very same that adorned the Union Jacks posted at its stern. In gold cursive font, HMS Redoubtable was written across the ship's side. The two boats were sitting upon calm waters, held in nervous anticipation of what was to happen.

Jackson turned to Mani next to him.

"What do we do?" he whispered.

"నాకు తెలియదు ,1" Mani said back.

"Ah yeah, right."

Jackson had not fared any better in the 'speaking languages other than English' department since joining the crew a week ago. For the time being, he would have to make do with understanding not much at all.

Gangplanks were set down between the two ships. Men in redcoats and fanciful wigs descended upon the Marauder's Mistress in a well-organized procession. Twelve men in total walked aboard the ship before turning and standing at attention. One more Britisher followed. It was someone Jackson recognized.

Lord Cornwallis!

The young, preppy lord marched with pomp and circumstance across the gangplank. His many medals swung in the warm Caribbean breeze as he stepped out onto the deck. He had his hands behind his back and his snooty head held high, and he stopped just feet before Kingsley.

Kingsley was normally a very serious man, but the look upon his face was especially grave today. He just stood there nervously while Cornwallis eyed him up and down.

"Where is the Captain of this dingy vessel?" asked Lord Cornwallis, glancing around the meager xebec.

"I am the Captain," said Kingsley.

A lie. What is Kingsley's game here? thought Jackson.

Cornwallis gave the slightest of smirks. "Really?" he asked, "It's not often that your kind is the Captain of anything, much less an honourable enterprise. Tell me, what business are you and your crew in?"

"Textiles," Kingsley said unblinkingly, "We buy out of New Orleans and then sail south to sell them."

"Ah yes, and where abouts do you sell these textiles then?"

"Port-au-Prince, Havana, Guadeloupe, St. Kitts, San Juan, anywhere and everywhere that's buying."

"Are there any British ports that you sell at?"

"Nassau occasionally. But our ventures don't often take us to the lands of King George."

Cornwallis was a good half foot shorter than Kingsley but still seemed to tower over him. He stared into the Jamaican's eyes for a couple of seconds before asking, "So you've never found yourself in Port Royale then? Especially not recently?"

"Not recently, no," said Kingsley.

"That's interesting," said Cornwallis, "Because this ship matches the description of one wanted for smuggling, profiteering, and racketeering, last seen in the city of Port Royale."

"There are many ships that look like this one. It is the standard Spanish three-sail model."

"Ah, the Spanish, don't we love them," smiled Lord Cornwallis, "Those Catholics manage to treat the natives worse than we do."

Kingsley didn't respond, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead.

"So you're sure this isn't the ship I'm talking about?" asked Cornwallis, leaning ever so slightly in towards Kingsley, "Because if I find out you're lying, it'll be a dance with Jack Ketch for you and your whole blasted pirate crew."