The Pirate Named Christian

                                                                            Chapter One
                            It is when power is wedded to chronic fear that it becomes formidable. --Eric Hoffer

    The two captains' gaze seemed to last an eternity.  The British captain stared with haughty, belittling green eyes, with just a bit of fear evident.  The pirate captain glared with the bloodthirsty, penetrating dark eyes of a demon, with just a bit of rage evident.
    "That's not good enough," said the pirate captain calmly, and he pulled the trigger of the pistol resting on the man's forehead, forever closing the eyes of another arrogant British officer. As the captain's head dropped to his chest, dozens of pistols fired and dozens of sailors slumped to the deck.
    One woman screamed.  A child whimpered.
    The pirate captain smiled and turned his eyes on the small group huddled against the rail.  The corner of his mouth upturned in a twisted grin.  "My dear guests," he acknowledged mockingly, bowing deeply.  Somehow the guests that were unfortunate enough to have him as their host never had much need for his company or his manners. As he finished his bow, he saw an unusual sight.
    There were two women.  One was sobbing and wailing about her ridiculous fears.  She was young, probably still a teenager; very plain, with a dreary appearance that seemed soaked in grief. The other clutched a child to her bosom. She was slightly older than the first, but she was nothing to stare at either. She refused to look at him.  That was a normality-- women rarely wished to lock eyes with such a cruel man. 
    The pirate king smiled again but not at any of the captives. He smiled at the feelings that hung between him and the women. The air reeked of hate and fear. It clung above them, mixing with the gun smoke and leftover fear of the seamen that were now dead. The smell of it pleased the captain, seducing him as the smell of blood would a vampire. He wanted them to hate him.  He thrived on their fear.  He had heard that the general populace of the Caribbean had hypotheses for why he released the weaklings he stumbled upon every so often. One idea said that he rewarded himself with their fear.  Another said the reason was to let the already legendary stories that existed about him became even greater via the women he freed.  Still another said he let them live only so the memory of him and what they saw him do would haunt them till their last breath.  He quite enjoyed hearing such tales from the islands, but he alone knew what his purposes were, and they were simpler than any of those lukewarm philosophies. He handed the British captain's pistol, the one responsible for putting lead through it's owner's skull, over to one of his men, and turned again to the women to laugh at their plight. He held no quarrel with them, but seeing their fearful reactions his power written so clearly across their worried faces satisfied him.  They would not forget.
    No, these women were perfectly average.  They were the spineless, pathetic ladies of England, brought up in such a manner that they could not think for themselves.  They cried at all the proper moments, laughed at the proper jokes, and remained silent during the proper conversations.  They represented everything the pirate captain wished to wipe from society. He despised their lifestyle.  He despised them as well, but he would do them no harm. He smirked, for they did not know that they were in no physical danger. They thought they were worth his attention, that they had something he wanted. He wanted nothing from them but what they had already given and would continue to give long after he had sent them away to live their disinteresting lives. 
    The women dared to peek beyond his black figure to see what his pirate crew was doing. He waited expectantly for them to realize what was happening.  His men were strapping weights to the legs of the men they had just shot with their own pistols, tucking those same pistols back into their original handler's sashes, and dropping the dead men into the ocean without any proper ceremonies or respects. As the last of the bodies slipped into the waves, the captain smiled at the women graciously. He had just blatantly disrespected the royal navy and violated every moral code that existed.  He had murdered, kidnapped, stolen, destroyed, and shredded any honor the sailors had possessed even in death.
    No difference. The women of the day could hardly understand how the Navy treated the men who gave their lives away to serve. They were underpaid, underfed wretches who were better off dead anyway. The Navy's promises were never kept-- not to rulers, officials, civilians, or even cabinboys. Each ship was a dictatorship and every man aboard was slave to the captain. The pirate captain's ship was oddly run in the same fashion. He was very different from other pirate captains who could be ousted and replaced the second they made a decision the crew did not approve of. The difference between this ship and any belonging to the Navy was that his ship demanded to be run this way; there was no choice. Unlike the Navy, the pirate captain made sure that his men were well aware of what would be required of him before he signed his life away. But he was paid well, he was fed well, and he was treated as a respectable human being rather than as an animal that had no senses. The pirate captain was king on this ship and what he ordered was law. This the men knew and were careful to see that they carried out his word to the smallest detail.
    The pirate captain's eyes lingered on a woman, very different from the other two, whom he had not noticed at first.  Apparently she lacked fear.  He peered at her curiously and stepped closer to her, waiting to see the courage drain from her face.  It did not.  She stubbornly watched his approach.  Her eyes were blue.  They were uncommonly pure. She stood slightly separate from the women and child.  Her bottom lip trembled, but there were no tears.  Her blond hair was falling from where it was pinned at the nape of her neck. The hem of her skirt was soaked in the blood of the English crewmen.
    The pirate captain drew so close to her that he could see blood dripping from a small cut on her lip. The sleeve on her right arm was torn and blood stained the blue fabric around it darker.  He glanced back at his men, who had already begun to wipe clean the deck. They would have to be taught how to more proficiently transport a prisoner from one boat to the next without damaging them. He cocked his head and watched the woman again.  She refused to look away from him.  He was reading her, and it was obvious that she was aware of this, but it was as if she was encouraging him to.  She was angry, in pain, and mortified, but she was not frightened, and she was not proud. Would she remain so stoic if he threatened her?
    "Madam," the pirate captain said in a lowered tone.  He took from his coat a silk handkerchief, dabbed the blood from her lip, and then handed it to her, anticipating her actions and planning around them. She took it without letting her eyes leave his and swiftly drew her sleeve away from the injury on her arm. She placed the cloth over it but had to look down then as she desired to tie the handkerchief around her wrist. She could not do that with only one hand, however, and the pirate captain, having expected this problem, took her arm to gently secure a knot for her.  As he did so, he leaned to her ear and whispered, "I would never wish to see so fair a lady in distress."  As he withdrew, he brushed his cheek against hers ever so slightly and tightened his grasp on her arm, making it clear that he could do with her as he willed.
    These brash actions served only to write more sadness in her eyes.  She looked at him and said, "I pity you."
The captain smiled to cover his surprise at her response and the fact that he had a compulsion to converse with his captive. "You shall dine with me tonight when the sun yields to the sea."  At his command, the pirate captain's men escorted the prisoners below deck, leaving the solitary figure to wonder at the bravery and curse the pity of this woman.
As they were led away, the mother of the child stole a look at her new captor. One would have guessed, she thought, that the possessor of this voice had to be older than the owner of it truly was.