“I was following orders!” The words gasped from him as his back slammed forcefully against the wall, impressing one of his hidden weapons uncomfortably against his spine and making him arch in a rather provocative manner in order to alleviate the pressure. McGraw was inches from his face, fury blazing in mismatched eyes, looking for all the world the demon he had created in Flint.
Taking a breath, Graham raised his hands and set them to the man’s wrists – a placating action, rather than a volatile one – knowing that violence on his part would only make this situation worse – and if he was to believe Billy ( which he did, he held no doubt in a man as steadfast and loyal as he ) then getting “Flint” on his side would prove instrumental in securing Nassau against invasion.
“I swear, it is no lie I tell you. He is alive, I delivered him myself to the plantation – he was made to be buried, for the sake of Alfred’s reputation but the Rowes wouldn’t stand for it. His own uncle handed him off to me – I promise you. Killing me won’t get you to him, damnit!”
Even as Abigail felt her legs giving out from under her, a firm arm clasped around her shoulders and held her fast to an ever familiar form – helping her find the ground painlessly as she let herself sink to her knees in grief raked raw in the wake of what had occurred at the tavern where she did her additional work in between novels and their royalties.
It had been too much, to see a familiar face – to recognize a man her father had worked with in this place, which had come to mean something like home to her. She knew that the black mark upon her own name was only one arrest away from being branded to her skin, if not to lead directly to the gallows swing. The terror that had filled her at the sight of a man who had never been anything but unfailingly kind to her was absolute proof that her life had changed irrevocably since Charlestown.
She shook, turning and burying her face against the leather of Flint’s coat, anchoring herself with the knowledge that she was safe here, in this house. Assuring herself that between Flint and the Hamiltons, no harm could possibly come to her. They’d never allow it, surely they wouldn’t!
He is in a better place now, Flint. He no longer has to clean up after your bullshit. Rejoice, your murder of Hal did him the one favor he could never do for himself.
It was a dangerous gamble – one that would put him on the harshest side of the admiralty if word of it was ever to come about. He was at liberty to enact any means necessary to put an abrupt end to the bleeding asset that was Nassau and once again retain English command over the region, ensuring that her profits were no longer squandered by those who would pad their own pockets at the expense of their country, like Guthrie had done.
What was more, he was to ensure that trading passages were – at least to some degree – made secure against the threat of piratic violence. This latter was perhaps the more difficult of the two endeavours, but he knew that if he could pull from the waters captains like Flint, it would fast become too dangerous for the less ambitious to carry on as they were. The war in this theater was already paying a heavy toll – for those who could manage it, turning privateer was far more profitable than carrying on as pirates, provided there were not flags of stronger visionaries to band behind.
Alone, pirate ships were not much of a threat to the interests of England – but when they banded together under one banner, it was a growing concern that Graham could not abide by. Short of killing Flint and granting some sort of martyr to rally behind, his best bet was to force the man into legitimacy – and if a man as notorious and vocal as he turned privateer, it would be a very loud proclamation to those rebels and idealistic thieves that their way of life was simply not sustainable. To make a hypocrite of one of their leaders would force them to question themselves – and if nothing else, it would weaken their resolve tremendously.
The trick, of course, was in convincing this man to not only do as he was bid – but to ensure that he continued to do so after he received what he wanted. Graham believed wholeheartedly that he held the very cards necessary to ensure that outcome – a risky gamble, but one he believed he could take if he played matters just right. And now here they were, on the very cusp of what he needed to achieve, and not even the threat and violence etched upon such familiar, yet changed features could deter him now. He’d laid his card – now was time to play the rest.
“Your death would be more troublesome to my work here than your turn toward legitimacy,” The answer was spoken quietly, for he had the man’s attention now and the need for ferocity had passed them. “In exchange for Thomas – “ He lowered his hands, straightening and meeting the man’s frightful glare squarely and without fear or contempt, but rather the calm certainty of a man who knew he had played a winning hand, “I would have you and he assist me personally in returning Nassau to British rule.”
Complete and utter betrayal of the black flag was the price for Thomas Hamilton – anything less and the admiralty would be infuriated, though only Hennessey would know the full depths of Hume’s betrayal to achieve even half that.
“Your pardons,” He continued, steady and undeterred, “Would be conditional upon your service toward that end. Once trade routes here have been properly reestablished, and Nassau has functioned for a year – you are free to do as you please.” By which point, the damage would be too great for a return to piracy. It would be legitimacy or disappearance in full, but it would be the end of the notorious Captain Flint and perhaps, a start for the new and restored Nassau.
His voice left him, at first. Flint simply stared, pupils like pinpricks and mouth twitching into a snarl, looking for all the world more demon than man. He wanted to snap Hume’s neck, for daring to lie to him like this. For calling up that awful glint of hope in James’ chest, for sparking it when Flint knew, when he knewthat Thomas could not be alive- Peter’s letter-
Flint’s mouth pressed into a thin line, nostrils flaring as he fought both his temper and the constricting silence lodged in his throat.
If this is a fiction, he thought, staring hard into those bright, blue eyes, there isn’t a fortress in the world that will keep you safe from me.
But the Hell of it was that this was Flint’s Achilles heel: the one thing he would have risked everything for no matter how unlikely it was, no matter how much his rational mind believed that Thomas could not be alive. If there was even a chance, he had to take it. He had to.
He thought of Nassau. Of the schedule, of the gold. Of seeing Thomas’ plans breathed into life, finally, after nearly a decade.
And then he thought of Thomas, hidden away somewhere but alive, and that he and Miranda might see him again, and the emotions that surged up in him–and the fear that it might not be true–were agony to bear.
“You,” Flint rasped, eyes flicking over Hume with a sneer, “would offer this to me?” The distrust was plain in both his voice and expression. Flint’s hands were twitching, like he wanted to hit something. Offers like these did not come without a cost: they did not come without a debt.
(And? It’s Thomas, McGraw hissed at the back of his mind, And you would burn in Hell for him.)
“Even if,” (he still could not say the name) “He was alive, as you say- why?” Flint’s eyes narrowed. “Why not hang me?”
I kind of love that my sleeping schedule is a cryptid while I myself somehow manage to not be – that right there is some arcane bullshit and I approve.
That said – interestingly enough I am not a big fan of cryptids, generally speaking. When I was writing as Robert Small I did do some delving into that community despite it being something I actively avoid ( the Bigfoot and Alien enthusiasts out here drive me mental ) and I did some isolated research into the Dover Demon and Mothman, ultimately choosing to create my own mythos for the former and treat the latter as a running joke.
Beyond that, I have done some extensive writing and research in regard to mer-culture and the like but I generally need to be in a very particular mood to want to do anything mer related. Sea monsters, serpents and of course, the beloved kraken, are deeply important to me though and considering the nature of this blog, I really ought to write more about them.
I suppose if there is any cryptid that holds true significance for me outside of writing, it would probably be hellhounds and the wendigo. While the former is simply something I have done a lot of study in due to my fascination with mythology and demonology, the latter is actually very close to home in the fact I was raised up on the legend. I did delve at one point into research on the wendigo and my findings still chill me today, so it is something I prefer not to look at too closely anymore.
Thomas is appalled that evidence is required and simply for this remarks that it was probably destroyed in England.
Hal is making the big shrugging Really Bitch? face right now because his whole fucking career the past near decade should be proof enough you redheaded little twit.
Silver considers the request for proof one of the more valid things Flint has requested of him and just gestures vaguely to That Verse.
Vane doesn’t believe he needs to prove a goddamn thing, so let me gesture to that verse for him.
Theodore is not at all surprised that Flint requires proof, because, and I quote, “For a man of such big and wonderful ideas for the world, he is held back primarily by his inability to see himself in that future, because he lacks the fundamental capacity to forgive himself enough to allow it. So long as he considers himself a criminal against his own heart, he cannot comprehend the idea that broken piece of him is deserving of tenderness.”
So there’s that.
The only others who have interacted with him haven’t killed him so I mean, that has to account for something. Also Julia says the proof is in how many of her shirts she let him steal as a wee bairn.
Damn that witches’ brew – he ought to have known better than to drink anything offered him by an Obeah woman, least of all one who appeared to be in good spirits with the captain. There was no other reason for him to suddenly feel truth falling from his lips, when within that truth lay secrets and implications that could cut too close to things he never wanted this man to know.
“He was the man in charge of my English indoctrination, and the first person I ever truly feared. Nevertheless his lessons have proved themselves – invaluable.” He opened his eyes, feeling somehow liberated from his compulsion, enough so to inquire wryly, “I take it you ask because his is the only name I have spoken that ties to any history I might have, and I’ve used it twice.”
It was his hope to distract Flint now – if anything could stir him up from this downward slump of his, Silver did not doubt the promise of an enormous purse would do the trick. The less Flint knew of him, even now in his apparent defeat, the better.
“Because I know what it is like to lose everything.” The answer escapes him without his full consent, and now that it is there, he knows it bears explaining in his own terms before the inquisition turns around on himself.
“I can’t say I ever fought the way you did – I don’t think anyone can really relate to your war, let alone the outcome of finding what you fought for only for it to choose – anything but you. There’s elements though, that I do understand. Enough, at least, to know that you being out here by yourself is a death sentence you’ve chosen. All I can do – “ Why was he saying this? “Is stall the inevitable, and hope that arcane side of you decides it’s time to play phoenix before that comes to pass. I guess – I’m just buying you time, to find yourself again.”
Ocean Archive 