A Hidden Queen

Chapter 94

Several weeks. John scoffs unhappily, staring through the eye piece. It took several weeks for the able crew of The Wicked Mary to get to the enclaved tomb of The Cyclone and raise her from the dead. The damage from the moistened air was more extensive than any had considered. And their meager supplies had barely scratched the surface in making her seaworthy. Josephine had looked upon the mighty man-of-war with such sorrow that it pained John's heart to conjure up the imagine. The whole affair was disheartening to the core. However, every one of them refused to give in so easily.

Charlie, along with the bosun and his men, have spent endless hours, scrounging and making the best at what they had. John had helped the process along, pulling from his own ship where he could. But soon Charlie's temperament deteriorated with the passing days. He continually growled and snapped at him and the men, going so far as to even complain about the sun beating down upon their backs. John had picked up on the gnawing pestering going on in Charlie's head. He had wanted to approach the boy, allow him to express himself, but he knew his own temper enough to wisely give the new captain some space.

"Looks like we got company." Pittman muses outloud.

John pulls himself from his thoughts, "Aye. And she's not flying any colors upon her either."

He lowers the scope, pursing his lips in thought. This was not good. The Cyclone was in no condition to run, let alone fight it's way past. And The Wicked Mary wasn't in any better straights with the wooden planks nailed into her woodwork to connect them at the belly.

"She could be a friendly." Pittman offers, coming to rest beside him. "It's unlikely for someone to stumble upon us with the island shielding the two ships. And no sane sailor would navigate the entrance of the bay without knowledge of her reefs."

"Unlikely yes. But not impossible." John states, scrutinizing the ship once more. "Fire across her bow. Let her know that we see her. Friendly or not, I do not want to take the chance of her blocking us in."

Pittman gruff an acknowledgement before disappearing from John's side. The sound of clanging metal came across the deck as the men begin to stir. The guns roll forward, the wick hissing as it eats at the fuse. There were several seconds of quiet before the report of the portside guns split the silence. John inhales deeply, planting his feet on the pitching deck. The green eyes strain to focus through the scope, making his stomach lurch uncomfortably.

"Captain?" Pittman calls from the bottom of the stairs.

John holds his breath with the agonizing slowness to respond. His heart skips several beats as panic creeps around the corner. Then as if my God's hand, a black flag slowly unfurled on the stern, a white soon chasing after it.

"Stand down." John breathes easily. "She's one of ours."

He viciously rubs his eyes before making his way down to the weather deck. The friendly ship approaches with more haste than they had previously shown. What could have taken them a good hour to pull aside was only taking mere minutes. John settles next to Pittman who gazes across the small expanse.

"It would appear we have the privilege to be graced by Captain Cooke's presence." He comments conversationally.

"Captain Cooke? I thought he sailed an old brigantine named The Tong?" John asked, genuinely confused as his eyes took in a barque class ship.

"He does, but he must have won himself a hefty prize. Why he is sailing this beauty I do not know."

John pinches his lips into a thin line. Something wasn't settling right. Pirates took prizes, but many of the old timers didn't take the ship preferring their originals over bigger, flasher ones. He instinctively rests a hand on the railing, leaning over to gaze down at a robust man with a protruding gut. His thinning salt and pepper hair had further retreated from a once very prominent widow's peak. He squinted up at them with hawk-like baby blue eyes.