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Pirate!England x Reader
Vehemently
Part Seven

“I apologise for this,” Alfred told you, cramming on the lid of the barrel, which hit your head slightly, “but it has to be done.” When you didn’t reply, he persisted. “It’s nothing personal, I swear. It’s just that I’m quartermaster, and, you know, I have to…” He paused. “…carry out the sentences the captain gives.” You felt something spread across the top half of the barrel. Alfred’s voice came to you, but it was muffled, now. He said that he had laid a blanket on top, as usual for this sort of thing, and that no, he was not going to do anything else to the barrel; he just had to leave you in there for a while. At least, that was what you had gotten out of the vague explanation.

The inside of the barrel was incredibly uncomfortable. It was revoltingly sticky, as it used to hold sugar, some of which had melted to the sides. However, enough solid sugar was still present to create a grainy coating. It was warmer than to which you were used, just enough for beads of sweat to form on your hairline. Your hands were bound with thick rope, and your legs were folded very closely to your chest. You could barely move at all, but you did jump when you felt something wriggle under you. You did your best to calm yourself when you discovered it was a cockroach—probably. You couldn’t see anything, but you didn’t want to think of anything worse that was the same size as one.

You still did not understand the point of this punishment. Sure, it was cramped and disgusting, but you felt like something worse needed to happen. You could withstand the discomfiture, but when was the action going to happen?

You stopped, catching yourself. Why were you wanting something worse to happen? You should be relieved that it was just discomposure. You must be mad, surely.

Even if you weren’t, the heat certainly was maddening. It was getting hotter by the minute, and you had never been accustomed to much heat at all. You could feel your face flush and the rope getting slimy from your sweat. The air felt thick. You started taking larger breaths, but they weren’t much of a help.

You realised how this was a punishment. Even though you could not think well due to the acute pains in your stomach, you tried to distract yourself by telling yourself a story. Words, for once, could not comfort you. You felt too wretched to think.

You tucked your head to your knees. You felt nauseous, like you were going to throw up, and like you did not have the strength to sit upright, and your heart pounded in your ears. You wanted to cry.

Even in the dark, colours seemed to dance before your eyes, and it did not help if you closed them.

Proper clothes. Clean hair. Respect.

“You are certain of your way?” Captain Kirkland asked, coming to a sharp stop in front of the carriage.

“Do you think I do not know my own city?” You laughed. “Surely you know me better than that by now.”

“Of course,” he said, a light pink tingeing his ears, “I should not have doubted you.” He opened the door and gestured inside.

You climbed into the carriage, lifting your skirts to remain steady. You looked down at him. “I shall not forget my time with you.”

“Nor I mine with you. You were…indescribable.”

You smiled softly. He was so pitiful.

“And I will respect your wishes to desist all contact with you.”

You were relieved. “Thank you.”

The captain closed the carriage door after you settled yourself inside. You turned to direct the driver, but Captain Kirkland stopped you.

“Hm?” you said, placing your hand on the rim of the window, “Anything the matter?”

“I am afraid,” he said, placing his hand on yours, “that you have…” He sighed, changing his mind, but he looked up at you with a circumspect grin as he pulled off your glove and brought your hand to his lips.

You never faltered. “Thank you for my freedom,” you told him.

The captain nodded brusquely, and he saluted you as you were driven away.

Away to Court.

Home.

“Kitts! Hey, Saint Kitts. Kitts!”

Your title had never sounded right in his voice, anyway. You were glad to finally be free.

“Hey. Hey, are you okay? Saint Kitts!”

You looked up, and through the haze of colour you saw Alfred, who was shaking your shoulder. You let out a groan.

“Oh, marvellous. Can you stand up?”

“I…” You felt like a blur. “I, er…”

Alfred smiled. “That’s fine.” He picked you up from under your arms and brought you out of the barrel. “Are you okay?”

You couldn’t breathe very well, and the colours in your eyes obstructed most of your vision. “Think I…” You stumbled forward, but Alfred grabbed you before you fell.

“Oh, er,” Alfred said, his face pinched, “I think you need to sit down.”

“…fainted.”

Alfred slung your arm over his shoulder and led you to a chair. He plopped you into it and told you to breathe deeply. He cut the rope around your hands and found a wet rag to hold on the back of your neck.

Your stomach hurt so badly; you were sure you were going to cry now. You were still so hot, but you did not remove any clothing for fear of being immodest. But cripes, you felt like your insides were burning.

“Come on; when were you born?”

Alfred had been asking you questions like that for a while now. You supposed it was so he could know just how disoriented you were. You were able to think clearer now, but you still found it difficult to answer.

After about half an hour, you were still a little shaky, but you thought you were fine otherwise. At least, that’s what you told Alfred. You weren’t entirely sure you wouldn’t collapse again at any moment.

“Okay, d’you think you think you can stand up now?” Alfred said, resting his hand on your knee, “We have to get going.”

“Yeah,” you said, rubbing your eyes, “Going where?”

“We’ve got to get to work. It’s morning.”

“What?”

He took off his spectacles and wiped them with his sleeve. “What, the work or the morning?”

“The morning. How long was I…?”

“Roughly five hours, I’d say.” Alfred tried not to make eye contact.

“You’re an ar—”

“I said I was sorry. I can’t do anything about it. Orders are orders.”

You popped your neck. “…all right. I suppose you couldn’t do anything. Thanks for helping me convalesce.”

“I owe it to you,” he said, “Now, come on.” He offered you his hand and pulled you up out of the chair. “We’ve got to put you somewhere.”

Alfred took you up to the main deck. It was the first time you’d seen it in daylight in normal conditions. You really couldn’t believe that something had to be done at all times on this blasted ship.

“So,” you said, trying not to look directly at anyone despite their staring at you, “what am I doing? Swabbing the deck?” You paused. “Is that actually done?”

Alfred smiled. “It is. It’s to keep the deck from getting slippery. And no, that’s not what you’ll be doing.”

You jumped back to avoid bumping into a goat, of all things. “What is—?”

Alfred sighed and dragged you out of the way. “Seriously, do you know nothing? They’re for fresh meat and milk. You don’t want to eat hardtack all of the time, do you? Never mind. So, you don’t know…anything? Not the code, or…?”

“Not really. I’ve been in Court most of my life. Pirates aren’t usually the topic of conversation.”

“Pirates?” Alfred frowned. “Oh, no, not pirates. We prefer the term—”

“Well, you’re definitely not privateers, so say something else.”

“Ooh,” he said. You had caught him. “I’m hurt.” He bolted up a couple of stairs to the quarterdeck before turning back to you. “Can you sew?”

“Yeah, but I’m not the best.”

“Great; you’ll be working with Allistor.”

“Excuse me?” you said, following him, “I thought he dealt with guns and the like.”

“He does. But you don’t.”

“I’m insulted—”

“Look,” he said, turning around so he was right in your face, “You don’t know how to do any of this. You don’t know the rules or the ways to act around here. You don’t know how to live like this. So, just wait until you learn how. You have to start from the bottom, so don’t feel bad.”

I don’t know what’s going on, you thought, Does he think I’m actually going to be here long enough to get to whatever the top is?

“Allistor,” said Alfred, approaching him at the back of the quarterdeck, “She’s going to be working with you today.”

Allistor didn’t glance up from his mortar and pestle. From the smell of it, he was making gunpowder. He had a couple of round flagons already filled on the ground, and he had tied a handkerchief over his face.

“Allistor!” Alfred snapped twice.

He yanked the cloth off. “What? I heard you. I’m busy.”

“Not for the next ten minutes. Put it down.”

“Alfred. Let me finish this round.” With that, he pulled the handkerchief back over his face and continued to crush up the powder.

“Right, then. Kitts,” Alfred said, gesturing to you, “come on.” He walked to the stern and looked out over the railing. “We’ll start with the basics. Do you want the code or the general rules?”

“The general rules, I suppose,” you said.

“Okay. The first thing to know is that pirates are not classless.”

“Thought you didn’t like that word.”

“Shush,” he said, elbowing you, “You don’t smoke, do you? Smoking’s not allowed.”

“Mm-hm. And everyone just happens to have cigarettes.”

“Yeah, but they don’t light them. No fighting. No gambling.”

“But…” You held up a finger. “Did you not have a bet going on? About Seamus?”

Alfred skipped a beat and then said that on occasion, rules were bent. However, that fact didn’t stop him from rattling off more rules about the cleanliness of personal weapons and the sharing of victuals. Just when you thought he had finished, Alfred listed off the code. It was surprisingly…honourable. It was strict guidelines concerning mostly marooning and behavioural standards. Alfred got strangely wistful and formal when he recited it. You just nodded at his peculiar enthusiasm.

“…and it’s typically firmly obeyed, since before a ship sets sail, its crew swears to do so by signing the written version of the articles. It binds the crewmembers to follow the code. Go get some thread from Dylan.”

“What?”

“He’s the pilot,” Alfred said, pointing, “I’ll be right back.” He dashed downstairs and you saw him rush across deck.

You did as he asked rather awkwardly, for Dylan was a little embarrassed that you knew he carried a needle and thread with him. You thanked him and returned to Allistor, who was pouring gunpowder into one of the flasks.

“Hello, Allistor.”

“Hi,” he said through his handkerchief, “It’s a lot to take in, yeah?”

“Tell me about it,” you said, crouching onto the floor next to him, “And you agreed to all of that? I’m just along for the ride.”

“Hey, it’s fine. We literally signed up for it.”

“Why, though?”

“Well,” Allistor said, pulling down the handkerchief, “Some of us were in the navy. Privateers. And that, frankly, isn’t that much fun. They may be legal pirates, but within that legality is a lot of injustice. Like how the privateer captains are appointed by other officials.”

You shook your head. “So?”

He shrugged. “The crew doesn’t get any say in it; he only becomes captain because of his good patronage. On illegal ships, the crew gets to elect the captain because of their respect for him.”

“I understand. It’s more democratic on a pirate ship.” Somehow, that didn’t feel like it should be coming out of your mouth. You bit your lip. “So, mutinies would be more common among privateers?”

Allistor looked down at his mortar and pestle again. “Yes, but they can happen on pirate ships, too, if there’s a schism in the vote.”

Alfred bounded back to you with an extremely large folded cloth in his hands. “Just a quick trip to the sail locker. Got the thread? Good. There’s a rip in this sail along this side.” He ran his finger down about a four-foot gash that appeared to have been crudely repaired and then torn again. “Not many of us can sew, and I—Seamus did a poor job of it earlier.”

You grinned at him as he laid it next to you. “You could’ve gotten Dylan to do it.”

“Yeah, but he’s got to pilot the ship. Can’t exactly do both at the same time. Now,” Alfred said, checking his pockets, “you two have fun. I’ve got to check up on… See you.” He waved briefly and bumbled down the stairs.

You turned to Allistor. “He’s adorable.”

“Yeah,” he said, cracking his knuckles, “but the worst part is, he knows it.”

“Anyway,” you said, threading the needle with difficulty, as you hadn’t done this in a while, “You were at schisms and joining the crew.”

“Ah, yes. Seamus and I were vague acquaintances when we signed on. We knew each other well enough to be able to, er, toss friendly insults. He was always a bit cross at me for filching some of his belongings. A lot muddling went on right here, and we’ll skip to the bit where Seamus and I don’t really want to be here, but it’s better than nothing. The captain and we have our disagreements, but I think we’re okay. I’m still cross at him, but it doesn’t mean I don’t respect him.”

“How noble,” you said, struggling with the thick fabric, “but it’s still conflicting.” You yelped as you pricked your finger. You hadn’t done this in a long time—a very long time.

“I’ve always had complicated opinions.” He measured out some saltpetre and exhaled. “Can I just say how difficult it is to get sulphur these days? Most of it comes from Spanish land, and it’s stupid to get a hold of.”

“The war is over, Allistor. We can trade without bloodshed now,” you said, thumping your head against the wall, “and didn’t you swipe some sulphur from the last ship we attacked?”

“Well, yes,” Allistor said, his eyebrows raised in earnest, “and you said we.”

You didn’t say anything, but you forced a laugh and bent down to stitch the sail.

Over the next couple of weeks, you began to feel accustomed to the life on the ship. You spent most of your time in the galley with Matthew; sure, he didn’t speak much, but when he did, his words were worth hearing. You realised that working in the galley didn’t exactly require a specific, specialised skill and thus was not parlous to anyone else for you to work there. You wanted a specialised skill, though, so you rotated around with some of the crew to learn.

Allistor was always a laugh when you worked with him, but you weren’t the best at being a gunner. He almost taught you how to shoot, but you were quite horrible at loading a flintlock. You always somehow screwed it up, even thought you knew it all in theory, and you thought it was a lot of trouble to shoot one shot.

You couldn’t exactly be taught by Alfred to work in his role, so you acted as a typical crewman under Seamus’s call when you couldn’t be with Matthew or Allistor. Seamus showed you no different than the rest of the men, but it was interesting to see him get a little flustered at what you did. He thought your habit of climbing on the capstan was aggravating, but you knew Seamus didn’t really mind. He did, however, blame you for the nasty bilge water accident when it practically exploded all over the deck.

After that incident, Seamus set you to caulking the ship—after an absurdly lengthy demonstration. You actually liked it, but you had no idea why. You had to lower yourself with a rope over the side of the boat, with which you were traditionally uncomfortable, and it was also frustratingly filthy. The caulking iron was difficult to use, and you were constantly afraid that your knot on your box of other tools was going to fail. Seamus sent you to do it so often that you seemed to have a permanent pitch smear on your nose.

After one particularly grimy caulking session, the sky and sea were so perfect they were a painting, and the sails were puckered against the gusts of wind. You pulled yourself up the side of the boat and leapt over the railing, and the sound of the crew singing intensified. You smiled and wished you could join in, but you did not know all of the words. You would wait for the chorus to roll around again.

Over the music, Seamus told you that one of the ratlines had come loose, and he pointed to the flapping one at mid-mast. You nodded, the harmonies too thick for you to speak over them.

You began to climb the ratlines on the starboard side, and the higher you climbed, the more you felt like you were dreaming. You were in awe of where you were at this exact moment—it didn’t feel right. Too perfect, too perfect. You tightened the end of the rope and shook your head. You felt dizzy but continued to climb, aware that it was a mistake.

You saw Seamus yelling at you from below, telling you to get down. You ignored him. You were still dazed and began to sing, the words crisp and light on your tongue. Just where the altostratus clouds merged together on the horizon and turned scarlet, the sun was setting on a glassy sea. You were mesmerised; you still had not yet tired of sunlight. You had missed it more than simple companionship.

But then you saw the captain glaring at you from the quarterdeck. He tilted his head.

Seamus’s commands became crystal in a flash, and you slid down the ratlines, never looking away from the captain. You reached the bottom and hunched over, like you wanted to hide yourself. You briefly apologised to Seamus and lowered yourself down the side of the boat as quickly as you could, and you vowed that you would not come back up until everyone else had turned in.

While you were caulking, you heard Alfred give an excruciatingly long status report to the captain. Alfred babbled on for ages, and the captain barely uttered a word, his footsteps slow and heavy on the deck. Alfred listed off inventory until you wanted to take one of Allistor’s grenades and swallow it. Not that you minded, but you noticed that you were never mentioned. Alfred finally relented when the sky darkened with rainclouds.

After the crew retreated inside for their evening meal, you deemed it was safe to board again. You packed away your caulking iron and pulled yourself up the side of the ship, your hands slipping on the rope as you went.

Alfred was waiting for you at the top, all severity. You greeted him, sensing something was wrong, and hastily apologised for taking so long. You moved to return the caulking supplies to their closet, but Alfred stopped you.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” he said, grabbing your arm, “They won’t notice you’re late.”

You swallowed. “Right, then. What’s the matter?”

“Matter?” Alfred tsked. “Oh, no, no; nothing’s the matter. But,” he said, flexing his fingers, “I have a proposition for you, if you want to hear it.”

“I do,” you said, a bit uneasily, but you didn’t show it.

“From this point forth, you will be sworn to secrecy, and you will speak to no one about this.” He extended his hand.

You hesitated. “Agreed,” you told him, taking it.

Alfred grinned. “Saint Kitts,” he said, “We have decided to offer you a place in our mutiny.”

You froze.

“Kitts,” he said, dragging out the syllable through narrowly pursed lips. He took a step closer to you, and you stepped backwards—into the railing. You lost your balance for a few seconds.

“‘We’?” You were able to choke that out, at least.

Alfred shook his head. “We…I have not been pleased with the ways in which Arthur has been managing the ship, to say the least. He’s grown too distant. Too inhuman.”

“Excuse me? I haven’t exactly—”

“You’ve spent too much time in the galley,” he said, “You haven’t been around when he’s got to dictate our actions. You haven’t exactly seen him in a situation where you weren’t his primary focus, have you?”

“I have… I admit that I have not.”

“Ah. Then you don’t know what he’s like.” He bit his lip, looking away from you.

Alfred didn’t need much prompting to tell you what exactly was wrong with the captain—too detached, too sadistic, too calloused. You didn’t really see that, but you could not contradict Alfred otherwise. He went on about something about the captain’s forcing some of the men to join his crew; some of them only stayed because of the lack of places to go. It seemed Alfred spent more of his time guilting you into joining rather than proving the captain was heartless. You knew it for yourself, but Alfred didn’t seem to be putting up a good case. You thought it best to let him speak while you tried to think things through.

It was tempting. You hated being on this ship with every fibre of your being—that’s how it had to be, right?

You had to be leaving soon, too. You had been sailing for the better part of a month; you had to catch up with Francis at some point in the next week.

You didn’t want to think about that.

You wanted to be a part of this, but somehow it wasn’t right. You sighed. How would Naomi handle this?

But you hated it here. You had to join. It would be your best chance at escaping this blasted ship and her captain forever.

You shuffled away from Alfred, who was getting entirely too close to you. “I’m afraid I won’t do much good, since I may be traded off within the next few days. I don’t think I can take part.” What were you saying? You couldn’t stop screaming at yourself inside your head; you wanted to mutiny and yet it was more wrong than anything in the world. “I wouldn’t be that much help.”

What, you thought, is wrong with you? Have you gone mad?

Mutiny didn’t seem like the right thing to do, though. Something was telling you that the fastest way out of their lives was through cooperation.

Alfred strode away from you, his hands in his pockets, and then he said something that surprised you: “I understand.”

What? Alfred has got to be…

“You’ve strong loyalties, but they’re not towards anyone on this ship. They’re towards Antonio.” He started walking backwards towards the stern, scratching the back of his head.

You twiddled your thumbs in silence.

“But,” Alfred said, turning his back on you, “if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”