Black Sam - Prince of Pirates

Eight - THE MARKET

 Eight - THE MARKET

August 1716

 Sam walked the bustling cobblestone streets of downtown Cape Cod, his long black hair standing out against a sea of white powdered wigs. The town bustled with people. Merchants set up small booths and canopies outside their brick and mortar stores. The tradition had started as a method for businesses to attract customers, but it had turned into more of a social event complete with music and food. People came for the spectacle as much as they did for business, although the latter was usually quite brisk.

 Sam took in the scene, his eyes closing, breathing in the sweet, savory aroma of a nearby bakery. He stopped and looked at some hats that were far too ostentatious, but he got a chuckle out of them. Fashion wasn’t lost on Sam, but he was motivated by his own taste rather than relying on the standards of the masses. He continued past a display of wigs to a shoe cobbler in the middle of his work.

 Sam watched for a moment, drawn to the man’s attention to such intricate detail. He looked down at his own shoes and bent them up at the toes a little. He moved his leg about to get a better view of each side and then clicked them against the cobblestones.

 “If it’s an excuse you’re looking for, may I suggest you divert your eyes nor’ nor’ east.” Sam looked up at the old man still working away on his shoe. The man had a patch covering one eye and a menacing scar that stretched from his forehead to his cheek. He had a weathered look about his face, as if he had seen excessive amounts of wind and sun. His hair was thin and gray, but he still looked able and strong.

 Nor’ nor’ east? Could he be an old sailor? Sam took the man’s advice and turned to the given coordinates. There, staring at him, were three young women, giggling and gawking. When he made eye contact with them, they turned away quickly. He turned back to the old man. “How can you tell it was my shoes they found humor in? Could it not have been that they were attracted to something else?”

 The old man studied Sam. His one eye was as intense as any other's set of two. “Every man’s shoes have stories to tell. What story do you think yours are telling them?”

 A grin slid across Sam’s face. “That I’m wise for not falling for the tricks of savvy salesmen.”

 The old man laughed. “Just trying to make a living is all.”

 “How is the living?”

 “I’m much better at making shoes than selling them, I’m afraid.” The old man gave Sam a wink.

 “My name is Samuel Bellamy.” Sam offered his hand and the cobbler took it.

 “Jeremiah Codington.”

 “How long have you cobbled shoes, Jeremiah?”

 “Well, roughly twenty or so years now. After the loss of my eye to French shrapnel, I came home and took over the family business.”

 “Do you miss it?” Sam asked. “Sailing, that is.”

 Jeremiah finished tapping a nail into the leather sole of a shoe. “Sometimes I wish I could get back out there. I still have some sailor left in me.”

 Sam picked up a shoe that had already been finished. “Of that I have no doubt.”

 “But, it seems to have passed me by, so here I am,” Jeremiah said.

 “Making quality shoes for fellow sailors.” Sam sat the shoe back onto the table.

 “That’s right...oh… you’re a sailor?”

 Sam clapped his shoes together. “And a new customer if you’ll have me.”

 “Of course, come around here. Let’s get you measured,” the cobbler said with renewed interest. “Take a seat and your shoes off.”