I asked Swiss if he would be okay with me continuing the Friday night post spot with the pirate novel and he enthusiastically agreed, although I am loath to turn Glibs into an erudite Wattpad. Because of that, and plus I second-guessed myself because most of these chapters are very long and are not breakable, I asked again. This time, he demanded I do so.
So here we are. Linked dates are to the music I wrote the chapter to.
Itβs 1780. American privateer Captain Fury and British pirate Captain Judas share a kiss that leads to a tavern brawl, but their common enemyβKing George IIIβkeeps them fighting to make a life together on the American frontier.
BARE AND BLOODY from forehead to waist, she held the tip of her sword tight to the neck of the man who lay on the quarterdeck between her feet, his sword-hand fingers ground under her heavy boot heel. Her long, blood-soaked braid whipped and snapped in the wind.
βThis ship is mine now, Skirrow,β she snarled. βYou have three choices. Adrift, keeled, or death by my hand.β
He would have swallowed, but her sword prevented that. βAdrift,β he whispered as best he could.
βWrong choice.β
The blade of a carefully sharpened battle axe glinted and whistled as she arced it overhead and brought it down through his neck, cleanly separating his head from his shoulders.
Heedless of the blood spurting from their vessels, she dropped the axe and snatched her former captainβs head off the deck.
She whirled to see the crewβher crew nowβwatching with varying degrees of calculation and terror.
βI AM CAPTAIN FURY!β she roared, thrusting Skirrowβs bloody head, still with its terrified expression, skyward. βI am your captain now, by right of my victory. Any who challenge me will also be sent straight to hell.β
She dropped Skirrowβs head upon his body, then rammed her sword into the deck so hard that it sank two inches into the wood and quivered. Most of the crew gasped and stepped back.
βDooley Smith, step forward!β she shouted.
A man of indeterminate age with a shock of carrot-colored hair stepped forward proudly and saluted. βSir!β
She plucked a jangle of keys from the bodyβs belt and fired them at him. Without a blink, he caught them. βDooley Smith. Leftenant. Second in command. Take who you trust and go free the prisoners. Bring them to me.β
A quarter hour passed in which she stood on the quarterdeck, hands on hips, unashamed of her bare breasts, surveying her holdings and crew. Many would die today, but most of those not by her hand.
Only fifteen men knew what this day would bring, and fourteen of them stood spread out, heavily armed, their backs to her, holding weapons to discourΒage any who might forcibly object.
A gaggle of Moors, Africans, Arabs, Jews, and Caucasians in equal numbers straggled up on deck, gaunt, nearly lifeless and, for the first time on this voyage, not bound by chains. Two men stood out: An Arab and a runaway Negro slave. Both stood proud, their backs strong for all their emaciation, and their bearing dignified.
βSolomon Ibrahim and Cambridge Bull, step forward!β
The two who knew they had the most to gain by this mutiny stepped forward with purpose. She pulled two leather-sheathed daggers out of her waistband and sent them zinging toward the men, who caught them handily.
βSeek out your enemies and do what you will,β she murmured, and studied the faces of the crew, a full quarter of which turned to shock and fear.
The Arab gave no expression to betray his feelings, but he turned on the balls of his feet and, with one graceful arc, slit the throat of the man behind himβthen plowed through the assembled crew.
The Negroβs expression had turned murderous and he too pursued those who had made his life worse than a living hell down in the deep, dark holds below the cargo.
She watched as men dove overboard to escape the wrath of the two who suddenly possessed the strength of madmen. Throats were slashed and bodies dumped, the sea below them blossoming vermilion as she stood silent, watching, waiting.
The rest of the prisoners stared agog, their vengeance wrought by proxy, their expressions slowly betraying hope.
The two men ran for hatches and disappeared into the bowels of the ship from whence screams erupted only to be abruptly silenced. Bodies flopped in their matesβ arms as they were dragged from belowdecks into the sunshine and tossed overboard.
The sun marked three quarters of an hour before the reapers reappeared before her, as bloody as she, sheathing the daggers in their waistbands.
βSolomon al Ibrahim,β she intoned. βI have no sailorβs rank for you, but you will be my equal on this ship, should you choose to sail with me. Anon, we shall together address your grievance with the sultan.β
His expression still blank, he bowed his head in respect, then raised it to look her in the eye. She nodded once.
βCambridge Bull. Second leftenant. Third in command.β He, too, bowed his respect.
βPaulo Papadakos, step forward!β The Greek had taken to the sea at ten, when his family had been run out of their ghetto and he had become simply an extra mouth to feed. βThird leftenant.β
βBataar Khan, step forward!β A smallish Mongol looked up at her from under lowered brows. βBoβsun. And do away with that farce of hair affixed to your chin. You are no more male than I.β The woman grinned and spun a Turkish sword over the top of her hand before touching the dull edge of the blade to her forehead.
βEnrico Espejo, step forward!β Barely out of the schoolroom, this Spaniard had proven his worth many times, and no less so today. βMaster gunner.β
βAdrian Croftwood, step forward!β An English noblemanβs fifth son, who had no hope of anything in his homeland and had gone to sea seeking a fortune that had never materialized. βCarpenter.β
βOrlando Telesca, step forward!β Another noblemanβs son, Venetian, heir to nothing owing to a profligate father. βSurgeon.β
The afternoon bore on thusly as she named her crew and positions, the last a small boy who had been used as a toy for the man she had just slain. No one knew his name or his age, not even he. He had always been called Boy.
βBoy!β Her voice rang out, still true, though she could feel her throat sting. βStep forward!β He did, trembling. She placed him at no more than nine or ten years old. βCan you speak, child?β
βYes, Sir,β he replied, immediate but timid.
βYou shall henceforth be known as Christopher. Take the first watch under my command.β
With the energy of the very young, he ran to the mainmast ropes and climbed, swift as a monkey, to the highest platform, where awaited a glass and cone. She looked up at him and he looked down at her, then he saluted. She nodded once, then stood silent whilst she picked out her own victims.
She saw where they stood, still alive. Neither Solomon nor Bridge would have had reason to kill them.
But she did.
And they knew it.
Lieutenant Smith caught her look and barked an order for five men to be tied to the masts of the ship. They ran, but her new crew was quick to capture them and follow those orders.
She clipped down the stairs to the main deck. She approached the first. βLook at me. Open your eyes.β
He refused, mute, miserable, tears rolling down his cheeks.
βConfess your sin.β
But he wouldnβt. He knew what he had done, and what she would do to him. Her crewman pried his eyelids open. With the point of her dagger, she pried his eyes out one by laborious one while he screamed in pain and blood poured out of the sockets. If he did not die, she would put him ashore.
She went to the next mast to which were bound two men. βTurn this one facing wood and get me a harpoon.β Her order was carried out and someone had slapped the long spike in her hand. βSpread him open.β With one upward thrust, she drove the spear into his back passage. His screams were deafening. They would cease in a moment or two.
The man next to him was already blubbering and begging for mercy, as he knew what was in store for him. She cut his breeches open with her dagger. With one hand, she grasped his cock and balls, yanked them toward her, stretching them as far as they would go, and sliced them both clean from his body. He passed out. Blood drained from his groin all over her hands and she wiped her palm dry on her arse. He would be dead by sunset.
To the third mast were strapped the last two men upon whom she would visit her vengeance. Smitty had ordered the instrument prepared as soon as sheβd begun her rampage, and brought the red-hot iron tongs to her immediately. βOpen his mouth.β
Two of her newly minted officers muscled his jaw openβtwisting it so that it cracked at the hinges. Smitty clamped the tongs to his tongue and dragged it out of his mouth. She cut it out with short, ragged strokes. He, too, passed out. He could beg on a street corner somewhere with the blind man.
The last man was the shipβs former surgeon. She stared at him, and he stared back, his head high. He had participated in the event that had led her to take this ship, but not in the same manner as the others.
βYou killed him, the grog you gave him.β
βI did,β he said without hesitation. βSwift and painless.β
She took a breath. βThank you.β
He inclined his head.
βLeftenant Bull! Take him. Lock him in my cabin. I should decide what to do with him later.β
Bridge stepped forward and saluted. βWhich cabin, Sir?β
βOh, aye. I have a new cabin now. My old one, then. Have a boy move my things first.β
βAye, Capβn.β
That done, she turned and bound back up to the quarterdeck. βSolomon. Mount Skirrowβs head on the bowsprit as a warning to anyone else who thinks to take me or mine.β
The Arabβs mouth turned up in a diabolical smile. She and the rest of the crew watched silently as he impaled the head on a claymore, then grabbed a measure of rope before heading to the bowsprit to lash it tight.
Turning to address her men, she said, βWe put into port in Casa Blanca soon for drydock. That will take some weeks. Those of you who do not wish to sail under a womanβs command will find your own way back to your homelands. After that, I go to Philadelphia to apply for a letter of marque. War has begun, and where there is war, there is money to be made.
βThose of you whoβve been bound who would be my crew are welcome to stay as long as you work. Otherwise, youβll tell the leftenant where you wish to debark and I shall take you there. Any who have wives or sweethearts who would be willing to work for me are welcome to bring them aboard as we pass your home ports.
βThe rest of you who wish to stay as my crew, freely and of your own will sailing under the command of a woman, will be well rewarded. This ship will henceforth go by the name Thunderstorm. We weigh anchor at dawn. Monsieur Senzeille, two extra rations of rum for each man and other than a skeleton watch of two hours each, you may have the rest of the evening to yourselves.β
The crew erupted in cheers.
It was a good dayβs work, but she could find no joy in it.
She looked to the sun, low on the horizon, and kissed the tips of her fingers. βAdieu, mon cΕur,β she whispered and went below to find a dark place to sob out her grief and heartache before her new crew saw her tears.
It was not meet for a commander to weep.
If you donβt want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.
Donations can be made here, if you so desire.
YES! I’m reading fiction!
I want to take a second to thank you Mojo for these, it does make a fun Friday night, and a supreme act of trolling, in that you are getting a bunch of libertarian adjacent weirdos to read romance. And trolling is the greatest skill of the Glib.
That said, I will be holding off as i am in the middle of a rather heavy novel, and have another one to be delivered later in the week.
This has A LOT more romance and sex than the last one. The guy who gave this a 1* review (also gave Patrick O’Brien 1*, so I’m in good company) said it was a Harlequin romance masquerading as historical fiction.
Well. Yeah. And?
Already bought it. In my reading list.
Just donβt do well with the serial/episodic format. I tend to read in chunks. It used to be Iβd read in chunks every day; now itβs not so often, but still . . . .
Oh, I don’t blame you. I hate reading serially also.
Writing serially ain’t no picnic either. [SF really is a marvel]
I love reading serially, but sometimes find it hard to remember what already happened.
Tonight’s episode feels very familiar – you’ve posted this before?
I don’t think so. I mean, I have it on my blog, though, so…
Hm, weird. I swear I’ve read this already. Maybe you linked it here. I doubt I wandered over there for no reason. π
It doesn’t read like a romance thus far. Nor is it too long at all.
You haven’t read much Bertrice Small or Johanna Lindsey, eh?
Firsters don’t read! What do you think I am, some sort of queer?
I did read the above. No experience with romance novels so what the hell do I know. As long as it doesn’t go Twilight and have wolf bonding with an infant child, I’ll give this one a go.
I’m keeping my paranormal adventures to an Alpine goddess, a wicked stepmother, and a bitter mage.
This is good, particularly for our family rating.
Mo, you are a machine. Before I read, do I already own this?
Don’t know. Amazon doesn’t tell me who purchased what, just that something was purchased.
Link?
https://www.amazon.com/Dunham-Tales-4-Moriah-Jovan/dp/098278127X
I do now.
Thanks, Mo!
Thank yoooooooooooou!
Please. You are one of my favorite artists. I read every installment but I am impatient, Thanks for what you do.
She seems nice.
Legit LOL
Holy shit is that LZ clip good.
Yes. I love that particular vid because they’re not young men anymore and they’ve still got it.
Rick Beato has a vid (that I now can’t find) on why recent acts have no staying power, and his friend said the acts that are long-lived are actually the anomaly.
“A LOT more romance and sex than the last one”
I got that. Right out of the gate with the lying then merciless beheading and all.
Oh, who doesn’t like a good beheading in the morning?
As long as there’s only a little death involved.
I like head!
/I worked with a dishwasher who modified his tennis hat to say “Give Me Head”. Dude was crazy. And didn’t give a fuck.
/pretty good dishwasher though.
Woohoo! Pirate book!
Nice start.
I feel piraty.
Obligatory.
Please. You are one of my favorite artists. I read every installment but I am impatient, Thanks for what you do.
?
Yo mang, you been Brooksβin?
July 4th, 1776? Interesting date.
Independence Day!
He shall know your ways as though born to them
Oh dang this movie is amazing. I’m so excited.
Dune?
I’m breathless I’m so upset even though I know how this thing goes
O.M.G.
Maybe it’s just me, but the perpetrator should be hung by her toes.
For Mojeaux
β€οΈ
Yueh betrays Leto
;(
Except we don’t get that scene.
Ohh, he does
Oh dang
Oh no
Well, Mike Tyson is old.
Sadly.
Regardless of talent level, I find Paul odious.
He’s a total and utter douche.
This entrance is the maximum cringe. But he’s young and tough. Good luck, Mike
Looks pretty fucking good.
Of course I’m just a year younger so my judgement might be a tad biased.
Husband: If the refs don’t give it to Jake Paul by decision, it’s because the Chiefs paid them.
Balls. I’ve been hanging out in the previous thread wondering why nobody was commenting.
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4m_M0JwGLI&list=PLBU3rjLvn2nQtaJ5yg7m_Xhsstr_fgveK" title="38 years ago
todayyesterday, pop music changed.” target=”_blank”>38 years agotodayyesterday, pop music changed.‘Night folks!
Spinal Tap vibes.
The chick fight was better.
Sean’s very late.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to get at it or kick ass or what.
I’m picturing Yara Greyjoy from Game of Thrones.
Good stuff Mojeaux. Thanks for sharing these here.
https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Yara_Greyjoy
I’m here. I was…busy π
Good morning Glibbies!
Have a kick ass day. β
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=2sV56KYSpKo
πΆπΆ
Batin’?
Good morning, Sean, Ted’S., homey, ‘slinger, Teh Hype, and myb!
Morning GT
π
suh’ fam
whats goody yo
TALL WEEKEND CANS
Good morning, fellow miscreants. Hope everyone has a fine day.
I woke up, that’s already a good start
That’s the spirit.
And a big thanks to Mojeaux for keeping us well entertained. π