Numbness segues to a dull thump where the table-leg had bludgeoned my skull, a stark contrast to the nights earlier libations; Rum’s heady flavours now soured by the metallic taste of blood. I stifle my groan as the bruises announce themselves from the beating I vaguely remember the beginning of. As my eyelids flutter open, my right eye painfully so, the darkness shifts but little due to a corse heshin sack placed over my head, allowing but a few small specks of starlight through.

I’m purched upright, hands tied painfully behind me, rope biting at my cold wrists upon what I can only assume is the rough wooden floor of a longboat; Wedged uncomfortably between the planks that pass as seating. I sense the tidal eb and flow as I sway with the battering waves hitting starboard side, my keen nautical sense hinting a westerly direction if we are indeed still just off Port Royal. I can barely taste the familiar tang of salty air through my potatoe and dirt covering. All I can hear is the small splashes of oars kissing the ocean and the croak of wood at each heave.

Drawing alongside a larger vessel the oars are taken aboard. A gruff command from ahead of me and the thud of ropes landing on deck. My covering is wrenched off of me and I whince with pain. Before me is a young man of swarthy complexion with a wonky suavity well beyond his years. A white cotton shirt hung loosely from his muscular frame. My own sword for sea service pointed at my sternam.

“Up,” he gestured his head towards the rope ladder, a snicker in his eyes. My bindings undone by a man behind me. It took everything in that moment to stifle the bileous remark and swallow; it tasted aweful. His grin was rage inducing, but I’d learnt my lesson, he was the one that had galled me into this difficult situation back in the inn. The cocky bastard. The cocky handsome bastard.

I barely made it up the rope ladder with a painful shimmy, trying my best to look nonchalant. As I did so I counted the number of gun ports, a fifth rate frigate totaling 48 cannons. Edging over the gunwale I took in the red and yellow Spanish flags. Considering the somewhat predominantly Anglo-Saxon crew i realise my predicament. Pirates. Or maybe I should say privateers.

Several cutless’ are pointed in my direction. The young man coming over the rail behind me grabs my arms and pulls them roughly together.

“Welcome to The Starling,” he whispers, trying to make it sound threatening; but the breath on the back of my neck and his close proximity, not to mention the rough handling, was putting other notions into my hazy mind; well that and the fact that ‘The Starling’ did not really stir fear in my heart. He pushed me forward, guiding me across the spar deck aft towards the companionway. I inhail deeply, knowing all too well what awaits me down below. Considering the man leading me, one of stature and proper baring for Royal Navy service, worthy of officer at least, he appeared so much out of place compared with the other motley men; whom are pockmarked, sun withered, tooth-lacking and odoriferous. Dare I say generally unappealing, what one would typically consider the dredges of the Royal Navy, those of poor moral character.