Chéri

Ch.12: Stiff as a Mast

The first spits of stormwater landed against the deck like miniature explosions. Thunder gargled out from the darkening horizon and the wind made a new home among the floorboards. Bayonets, slick with rainwater, were pointed in at Leigh Connelly.

"So, how'd you work this one out, anyway?" she asked, hand positioned on her sword, "You're not exactly on British soil."

Cornwallis dragged his saber behind him as he walked. "Well, that's why we're all dressed in plain browns and grays. Governor Vives of Cuba would never invite uniformed British officers to police his island. That would be giving up too much control. But employing British mercenaries? That's the perfect amount of delegation."

"Right, and this is all just to get me?" said Leigh, "I should be flattered."

Cornwallis stopped with his pacing. "I'm afraid it's less about you and more about what you represent. You see, your existence as a pirate is dangerous even to the idea of civilization. Wherever your red and black flag is allowed to fly, there will be those who take inspiration from it and rebel. There will be revolt, revolution, and bloodshed, all at the hands of a girl who should've just stayed in Ireland."

"Ah, but you'd have tried to kill me even if I had stayed," said Leigh, "Can't imagine myself following all the rules in the Brit-occupied homeland."

Cornwallis smirked. "Then maybe it was your fate to end up in my path. For I am Raguel, the Angel of Justice, and you are but one more demon that I am burdened to slay. And when I kill you, I will be venerated for freeing these lands of anarchy. I will have slain the very last pirate."

Leigh seemed unimpressed. "Nice speech there, Lordy. You have it prepared?"

Cornwallis turned the hilt of his saber in his hand. The air was now thick with rain. Water seeped into the lines of the deck and turned the wood dark with its touch. The city of Havana could be seen but for the mist.

"How about we duel already," said the Lord, "I say you have stalled enough already."

"You've been the one talking, mate," replied Leigh.

Lord Cornwallis stamped his foot against the wood deck. "Step aside, men," he commanded, "It is time we ended this."

The Britishers retracted their bayonets and retreated backward in unison. They stared straight ahead. Discipline was apparent in their unmoving features. Cold rain ran in streams over their stony expressions, before then soaking into their common clothes.

Cornwallis marched forward, holding the point of his saber out ahead of him. His other arm he held tightly behind his back. His was poised, like a panther in wait, and his posture was that of a skilled ballroom dancer, stepping in tempo to some unheard, phantom music.

Leigh pulled her bandolier off her shoulder and over her head. She dropped it to the floor. The flintlocks clattered to the ground. Then, there was a scraping, metallic noise as she slowly pulled her cutlass from its sheath. She pointed the blade out at Cornwallis.

"How do I know you're not gonna sic your men on me the second I win?" Leigh asked.

"Oh, Ms. Connelly," said the Lord flippantly, "You're not going to win."

##

Kingsley grabbed the knapsack full of metals from Jackson and slung it over his shoulder. Rain was coming down harder now and the group was rushing through the docks of Havana away from the Marauder's Mistress.