The breeze picked up and was bursting insistent, frigid puffs that threatened to dislodge his hat. Archie
clamped one hand on top, squishing it down around his lean face as he resolutely lengthened his stride
and marched on, determined to make it home before the storm set in.
He'd almost made it to the corner, to the place where he normally made the left on N. Westburl, and
then a right onto 43rd, followed by a various assortment of other long deviations that would get him
safely home, when a large crack of thunder shook the air. He decided that just this once he might
consider taking the most direct route, albeit dangerous, foreboding, and possibly life-threatening. He
stopped right on the bend of the street, uncertain for a split moment, until the next jolting crack of
thunder made up his mind for him. He headed straight along Market St that followed the length of the
Thames River, hoping that the seedy individuals who lurked around the pier were as mindful of the storm as he and would not cause him trouble on this particular evening, for even though he was quickwitted
and could talk himself out of most troubles, sailors tended to be a harder breed of people. They
were a sharp and cunning lot, and Archie did not know if he could outsmart anyone else that day and
didn't wish to press his luck.
He made it past the pier, hesitating just long enough to glance at the small boats tied to the dock. There
were obviously people about, and so far he had been lucky enough not to encounter any of them.
But one final ground-shaking crack and the tinkling sound of bells changed it all. The clouds overhead
clashed and he ran for the shelter of a nearby tavern, barely escaping the torrent of rain.
Archie had never been in The Captain's Keg before. He stopped just inside the door and let his eyes
adjust to the dark, smoke-filled room. He realized that not only had he run into the very people he
wished to avoid, but that he also had a new problem.
These men weren't just sailors.
He was ready to run back out and take his chances of drowning in the street, when he heard the same
tinkling of bells from earlier. This time, it sounded like mocking laughter.
Well. He might very well be losing his mind, but a coward he was not.
He straightened to his full height—all six feet and four inches of it—and removed his crumpled hat with
a flourish, tucking it under his arm. He walked proudly down the three steps that led into the heart of
the tavern—to a bar, teeming with pirates.
A couple of heads turned at his arrival and those who met his solemn, blue gaze were quick to drop their
eyes back to their drinks. His spirits momentarily lifted, Archibald nodded to himself more than to
anyone else in particular, a slight smile playing on his lips. He was holding his own.
Still erring on the side of caution, he scanned the length of the bar, finding three open seats. Two were
between rather burly, shifty-looking blokes with tattoos. The third seat, nearly on the end of the bar, sat
betwixt an elderly gentleman with longish white sideburns, a round belly, and spectacles to match that
sat precariously upon a rather bulbous nose. The gent on the other side was scrawny, his clothes in
tatters, thin face in a scowl as he stared at a leaflet of paper before him. Even though he sat still, there
was a nervous energy that pulsed off the small man. He gave Archibald the impression of a jittery,
starving squirrel.
Archibald decided his best chances lay between the old man and the squirrel and so he took his seat,
nodding in a genial fashion to the old man, whose watery blue eyes barely gave him a passing glance.
The squirrel didn't acknowledge his presence.
"What'll it be, mate?" the barkeep asked.
Archibald bit his lip to keep from laughing. Every drink in the tavern was the same yellowish liquid. Why
the bald man standing behind the bar bothered to even ask such a mundane question was beyond him.
Perhaps he was daydreaming again. He did do that a lot and at times it seemed real. "'Tis all ale, is it
not?"
"Aye, but will it be single or double ye'll be havin'?" Archibald lifted a single finger and waited for his drink.
"Ye'd have much better luck with rum, I should think," the old man said quietly as he stared down into
his own glass, "The ale's watered down. Not fit for a fish to drink, it isn't."
One dreg out of the glass, and Archibald was quite certain the gentleman was more than right. It tasted
like something poured from an old boot. Not that he regularly drank from old boots, mind you. Thank
heavens he hadn't ordered twice the amount of the vile stuff. Deciding it better not to even bother
asking for the rum, which most definitely hidden beneath the counter and out of sight, he tossed a
couple of coins down on the scarred wooden bar, and sat looking down into the remnants of his glass,
listening to the patter of rain on the tin roof.
A strange thought came suddenly. For a bar filled with pirates, it was most unusual. It was rather quiet,
an odd comment here or there, but otherwise there was nothing but silence. Surely they weren't all
sitting around listening to the rain. Archie couldn't figure it out. But he knew one thing, these people
certainly weren't living up to his expectations of the loud, fearless persons he always thought pirates to
be.
The squirrel on his left shifted around on his stool, staring even harder at the parchment. Sweat popped
out on a face that was now a color that reminded Archie of the paper in the print shop, a colorless, pasty
white. Good for paper, not for squirrels.
"Well?" a low, deep voice rolled out from a dark corner and broke the silence so suddenly that it startled
Archie. "Give us the news then, Harper."
Ah, well now. Things may get lively yet, Archie thought, casting a quick look to the corner from where
the voice rumbled. It was too dark to see the man who sat against the wall, but Archibald got a good
look at the pair of worn, dark leather boots propped up on the table, and the curling wisps of cigar
smoke that floated up to the rafters.
"It says a r-roy, royy…" the squirrel named Harper stuttered, the paper shaking in his hands.
"Ach! The man canna read it anymore than the rest o' us." A complaint hurtled from one of the tattooed
blokes at the opposite end of the bar.
As if he were getting more anxious, Harper tried again, his voice in a near squeak, "A royy-alll…"
Archie spied the lettering, and against his better conscience, whispered just loud enough that Harper
would hear, "A royal pardon is offered to those pirates who surrender on or before the fifth of
September, this year of 1718." He waited as Harper relayed the message, then continued, "Being limited
to crimes committed before the fifth of January. All other crimes committed after such date, will be
considered for a death of hanging."
Archie sensed the old man on the other side of him shuffle about, as if he were searching for something
on the insides of his pockets, but Archie's attention was fixed on the squirrel he saved. Harper turned
and gave him a toothless, yet thankful, smile and set to guzzling the contents of his glass as quickly as
possible in an effort to calm his shaking nerves.
"Well, that counts us out, lads," a dark chuckle came from the corner, "'No pardon for the likes o' us, I
fear. We all be hanged." "Aye, but they must catch us first. I won't be finding me neck in a noose," a shout rang out, followed by
the murmur of agreement from all the others as they lifted their glasses in salute.
Feeling rather in-tune with the pirates, Archibald picked up his glass as well and toasted the luck of the
now boisterous lot, draining the last contents of his glass. Some small part of his brain noted that while
the ale was certainly vile before, it also became bitter the longer it sat. The bitterness left nearly as soon
as he noticed it, having been replaced with a rather calming sensation.
Pirates truly weren't a bad lot, he thought sleepily, just people like everyone else. They were only
misunderstood. He turned to convince the elderly gentleman on his right of exactly that, when the
darkness came and took over. The last thing he heard was the old man chuckle, singing softly,
"Yo-ho, me mateys, yo-ho…"
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