To Slight the Jacket Blue. Bronwyn Sciance
"Home? Like it or not, Ned, this is your home."
Ned struggled to explain. "But my mother...Elsie..."
"Didn't they tell you when you first went to sea that the Navy was your home?" Sam interrupted. "It's the same here."
Ned gaped at Sam in astonishment. "You don't really believe that, do you? Sam, I...I have to go back, she'll be dreadfully worried about me..."
Sam laughed even harder at that. "Ned, I've not seen my mother or my sister in near seven years. I don't know if they live or die, and I'm sure they have no thought for me any longer."
"There you're wrong," Ned said quietly. He thought of Sam's once plump and jolly mother, now grown thin and gaunt, who wore nothing but black and drifted around her tavern like one in a daze. Hannah had even changed the name from the Purple Falcon to the Rosemary Sam–rosemary for remembrance, as Rebecca so often said. "Your mother's not had a peaceful night since word came of your ship's encounter with Christopher Moody. Sam, imagine how she would rejoice if you came home to her!"
"For a bright lad, you're doing a right good job of being stupid," Sam observed, although his face showed some little disquiet. "We can't go back now, don't you understand that?"
"Of course we can," Ned protested, though he felt a sneaking suspicion that it might be otherwise.
"Ned," Sam said, spreading out his hands. "We may call ourselves else, but we're still pirates, friend. And the only good pirate is a dead one."
Ned started, recalling his thoughts of a month before and wondering if the man who had once been his best friend had learned to read minds. Recovering his wits, he said shakily, "But you could be pardoned...if I explained..."
"Explained what?" Ned, you seem to have forgotten that I'm Captain Bluejacket, terror of the 'igh seas. I hunt Navy vessels!" Sam chuckled bitterly. "The Crown isn't going to pardon me on the say-so of a Naval officer who lost ship and crew."
The remark stung Ned. "My record," he said stiffly, "has been exemplary since I took up service. The Crown would have no reason not to at least grant me an audience."
"But what reason would he have to grant your request to pardon me?" Sam pointed out.
"Well..." Ned couldn't think of an answer. "At least you could be home for a little while. We both could go home. Home, Sam."
Sam threw Ned a sharp look. "What, being to sea with me isn't good enough for you?" He stood up, folding his arms. "I thought this was what we talked about–going to sea together."
"Yes, but...oh, Sam, not like this," Ned cried. He had a horrible image of his best friend swinging from a gibbet. "This isn't the life for me. I could never be a proper pirate. I have too much at stake."
Sam turned red. "Are you suggesting that I don't care for my mother's well-being? That I got into this life because I didn't care what happened at home? That I've a heart of black?"
"You're twisting my words," Ned protested, although a part of him wondered if that was what he was suggesting after all. "I never said that at all. I only said that I could never do this! You can, and you made the life work for you; that is all to the good. But I myself could never–"
"Do you think I don't know what to do for your own good?" Sam demanded roughly. "That I act randomly and callously? You have the makings of a fine buccaneer if you would just–"
"I'll not stand by and be insulted by one who would slight the jacket blue!" Ned shouted, his temper getting the better of him.
With frightening strength, Sam lashed out, slapping Ned across the face. Ned threw up a hand, blocking the next slap, but Sam cuffed him with his other hand. Caught unaware, Ned fell against the desk. A lantern crashed to the deck, and Ned followed.
He lay on the floor amidst the broken glass, looking up at the man no longer identifiable as his old friend–Captain Bluejacket stood above him, undeniably and unequivocally. A massive foot drew back, preparing to hit his ribs, and Ned closed his eyes, bracing himself for the impact.
It never came.
The door to the cabin flew open. "Cap'n!"
Bluejacket–Sam–stopped. "What is it, Bathan?" he snapped.
Ned opened his eyes and recognized the bare, hairy feet of the quartermaster. He gingerly rolled over to look up at the man, who had seized a scrap of parchment. "Article Five: No striking one another on board, but every man's quarrels to be ended on shore with pistol and sword," he read. He looked at Ned, then Sam. "Do you understand?"
"Bathan, I am the captain," Sam snarled.
"Aye, sir, you are, but if you don't follow the Articles, who will?" Bathan stood his ground. Ned knew that Bathan was that rare thing amongst quartermasters–a man liked by both the common rank-and-file of the ship and by the officers–and he felt a surge of gratitude towards the man. "We're near to a sandbar and there's plenty of daylight. If you'll both come this way?"
Ned pushed himself up off the floor, carefully avoiding the fragments of glass, and followed the quartermaster. His heart was beating rapidly. The duel was not to the death–necessarily–but to first blood. Such was the tradition on pirate vessels, merchant vessels, and even Navy ships when duels arose. It was a gentleman's arrangement. But Ned wasn't sure he could hurt Sam.
Still...he reached up and touched his cheek as they loaded into the ship's jolly boat. Still, maybe it wouldn't be necessary. Sam certainly seemed angry enough to draw first blood, the fight would be over, and they could put the whole thing behind them. Ned was already regretting his hot and hasty words.
Chapter Twelve
Standing on the sandbar, Bathan handed first Ned and then Sam a single-shot pistol and a curved sword. "Turn around," he ordered, and Ned obeyed, turning his back to his erstwhile friend. "Ten paces, turn, and fire. Ready...now!"
Trembling slightly, Ned began walking with a measured tread. He heard Bathan counting solemnly, his voice like the peal of the ship's bell.
"One...two...three..."
At the tenth step, Ned turned, hesitated, closed his eyes tightly and fired. The sound of a second crack an instant later told him Sam had fired as well. He opened his eyes to see Sam dropping his pistol and going for his sword. He had missed–they had both missed. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Ned grabbed for his own sword and charged forward.
The clang of steel clashing against steel rang out over the otherwise silent field of battle. Ordinarily the crew would be shouting encouragement to their favorite and heckling the other competitor, but though a third of the crew and half the officers stood on the sandbar with them and the remainder hung over the bulwarks of the Swift Return, they stayed completely silent.
At first Ned wondered at that, but soon he put all thoughts of spectators out of his mind and focused instead on his opponent, or more specifically on his opponent's sword. Don't think of him as Sam, he reminded himself.
Instead, he concentrated on the sword-fighting techniques he had been taught when he had joined His Majesty's Royal Navy. He let Sam fall into a pattern of chops and thrusts, all of which he parried almost casually. Then, as Sam went for an overhand chop, Ned lunged forward under his guard and caught him a glancing blow to his shoulder. His shirt tore, and blood bloomed in the slight scratch.
"First blood! There's an end to it," called Bathan. Ned instantly dropped his sword, taking a step back. Sam looked down at his side, then back up at Ned. Slowly, he also lowered his sword.
The men swarmed forward, bypassing Ned to attempt to succor their captain. Sam waved them off imperiously. "The matter is settled," he announced flatly. "Back to the ship, men. Let's set sail before the tide drops."
The crew cheered and returned to the jolly boat. Ned followed, a little more slowly. Yes, he had won the duel. But how would this change his status on the ship?
Chapter Thirteen
Captain