A rowboat emerged out of bright morning mist, bearing three survivors of the Lolligag. Captain Squee roused himself from the fugue of having taken a falling timber to the noggin.
"Hoist the Roger! Haul that lanyard!" So saying, he slumped forward once again.
At the bow, Scrum raised placating palms. "Let's keep it quiet, Cap'm--somebody on yon beach might be hearin' us."
"Besides," Chalmers added, "flyin' the Roger is the last thing we wanna do at this point. It's what got us proper gunned by that Frenchie man-o-war."
Scrum drew up on a reedy shore of white sand. "Nothin' for it now but to hide the chest. That bluff makes a right landmark."
The pair splashed ashore, grounding the boat and its dazed skipper. They lugged a small chest behind some scree at the cliff base, since the mist was burning off and might expose them to any eyes out at sea. There wasn't much chance of discovery by the colonials, whose tenuous foothold on this coast faced all manner of challenge: Indians, raiders, the king's grasping tax men, unpredictable storms and the like.
Chalmers leaned on his shovel, wiped a sweaty palm on his striped tunic. He stole a glance at the captain's bowed head. The plumed black hat obscured the man's vision, even if he was just shamming. The red coat was a liability, though, for blokes not wanting to draw attention. Suddenly emboldened, Chalmers hatched a plan.
"The cap'm don't know what we're about. I say we move on, and tell 'im the chest got stole." His craggy face leered. "Then there's the bounty on 'is head. Can't say as how it's easy takin' serious a man with a name like Squee!" He started to chuckle, checked himself with another fearful glance at the boat.
"Stow that, barnacle brain!" Scrum secured his tri-corner hat against a grit-laden gust. "I'm not sure he ain't watchin' us right now, clear through 'is hat, or listenin' to every word!"
These ruminations were cut short by distant thunder rolling ashore. Flashes of light fired the mist farther out. The Frenchie was back, and this time her opponent flew a union jack. Scrum shouted for the spy glass, and Chalmers lumbered down to carefully ease it out of the captain's hand. On his way back, another blast startled him, and he juggled the glass, almost dropping it into the foaming surf.
Scrum focused on the newcomer. "Limeys!" he spat. "Now all we need is the Spanish and the Portuguese!" The combatants moved farther off, the contest undecided.
"And the Dutch," Chalmers added. "There was five kings at that card game."
Scrum rested a foot on the chest, grinning. "A noble idea it was, gamblin' all this territory on a game--no war, no killin'. Too bad they didn't keep a closer eye on the deed to it all!"
Both men laughed at that, carelessly letting down their guard.
A girl of maybe fourteen or sixteen stood on the lower slope. It was the second thing Scrum noted, the first being the pistol in her belt. He shook Chalmers, whose giggling abruptly ceased.
"Good morning to you, gents," she began. "Leave off the chest, and be away with you."
Scrum drew up with swelled chest. "Keep in mind, lass, you only got one shot."
"Then it will be for you, even if you send your man after me."
"I ain't nobody's man!" Chalmers blustered.
"Shush!" Scrum warned. "The cap'm. . . ." He confronted the girl again. "Nothin' but a piece o' paper in here, missy." He took out a scroll as proof. "It's just the dregs after we lost all the gold."
"Then it must be mighty important. It'll be the scroll for your life."
Scrum was liking the bounty idea more and more, risky though it was. "Fair enough--the scroll is yours." Over Chalmers objections, he led the way back to the boat. "How is it you're called?" he shot back to the girl. "Who is it what got the best o' Cap'm Squee?"
"Don't laugh," she said. "I have one aunt named Erica, and another named Amelie. My da put both together to name me: Am-Erica. America."
"Bah!" Scrum risked some parting sarcasm to save face. As he and Chalmers rowed south along the coast, his confidence in betraying the captain faltered, and the captain didn't disappoint.
From somewhere in his coat, Squee came up with a pistol and pointed it at Scrum's head. "Where be the chest, Mister Scrum?"
Scrum's eyes crossed at the nearness of the gun to his nose. "We was beset by superior forces, sir!"
"Aye," Chalmers echoed. "Superior forces, it was!"
Squee slumped forward again.
As Scrum exhaled relief, Chalmers fetched a jug from under his bench. "There's some rum left. I say we keep 'im sozzled, then throw in with a new crew at the next town."
"It's just like you to have no imagination," Scrum scolded. "Here's what we do. . . ."
Their bickering trailed behind them as the boat journeyed on, passing the future home of the Norfolk Naval Air Station.
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