Macduff handed his spyglass to his companion, pointing across the sea. "There she is mate- beauty, ain't she?"
The other man, a stocky, nervous-looking greybeard, peered through the glass. "Pretty li'l thing, true to say, but Duff, look at 'er guns!" He stared at his friend with horror in his eyes. "Ye want to go after that thing in a skipper, man? Yer mad!"
Macduff laughed, and it was amazing how scary that could sound with his amicable-sounding Irish brogue. "It's 'er guns that make 'er a fine prize, Johnny," he reminded the man with a demonic grin. "Ever heard of a pirate without decent arms?"
"She's a ship of the queen!" Johnny exclaimed, obviously a last resort protest.
"And I'm meanin' to captain 'er," Macduff answered shortly, seizing the spyglass and sizing the ship up again. Her name was Destiny, a smallish, race-built galleon, capable for the two and any volunteers to handle. Anyone who didn't would be sent afloat on lifeboats- by the time they got to harbor, the Destiny would be long gone, and Duff had no need for excess blood.
He was startled to realize Johnny was talking. "And how're ye gonna get past 'er guns? We shoulda taken 'er at dock, I'm tellin' ye!"
"But that's not nearly so enjoyable." Macduff grinned, wiggling the fingers of his right hand until not just a few wisps of smoke, but a great deal of it, curled into a ball there- and burst into flame.
Johnny jumped back, knocking into the small mast of the skipper. "Not yer magic, Duff, please! Ye make me nervous. Just one miss, and-"
"Have you ever known me to miss?" The melody of doom, that was Macduff's voice. Musical like any Irishman's but with a dark quality to it. A voice of a man capable of friendship, but merciless when betrayed. Johnny gave in.
"Fine, Duff. But yer goin' to the gallows- or worse yet, the stake."
Macduff laughed again, and tossed the fireball up, where it vanished. "D'you think a man with control of the elements would go quietly to an early death? If I'm goin' to go down, Johnny-" here he drew his sword "- it'll be fightin', and with style."
"Stoic," Johnny accused, staring out at the Destiny again. He reached for the rum at his side, but Macduff's sword landed on his hand.
"I'll be needin' you sober," Macduff snarled. Johnny withdrew his hand- as one of the last Irish warlocks- they said he had the true MacCool blood in him to go with the surname- Duff wasn't a character to be messed with.
Macduff climbed the mast, looking out where Johnny was. Up there, the wind whipping at his face, he looked more regal than the queen, oddish mismatch he was. He wore worn boots, a canvas knee length coat, and a three- corner hat over his bandana, but it was there any resemblance to an honest merchant captain ended. Canvas pants- sailor's petticoats- a dirty cotton shirt, a still-thin beard, and fiery red shoulder-length hair completed the picture- his skin was too brown to properly see his freckles- save for his spindly form and dark eyes. "Bring 'er closer and toss me the red flag," he said.
"The distress flag?" Johnny asked, nevertheless tossing it up.
"Yeah, hope they notice," Macduff answered, hooking the flag to the rigging. It all depended on that. On a naval ship noticing a distress fag on a fishing boat- a stolen fishing boat, no less. But both piracy and magecraft were games of risk.
Slowly, as the ship loomed closer, he saw her turn. Thank the Lord, they were in! He swung off the mast, onto the deck, and grabbed his guns. There were two of them, plain, black, and useful. He'd rather not resort to witchcraft in Roman Catholic waters- Irish or not, Protestantism was much more likely to ignore witchcraft in its midst.
"Steady, now," he ordered Johnny, who had his shaking hand on the tiller. "We want them even closer." He drew a knife from his boot and slashed through their sail several times, until it was thoroughly useless.
"Yer mad," Johnny repeated.
"No, we need some reason to be in distress when she comes close enough to see," Macduff answered calmly, looking critically at the Destiny. Beauty indeed, though he wouldn't have minded a bit more wear on her sides.
A rope was tossed down to them when Destiny came close enough to see the paint-strokes on her starboard side. Macduff grabbed it in both rough hands and climbed on up like a monkey. Johnny needed to be pulled.
"So what happened to your sails?" It came from an officer, not a sailor. They had to step carefully, or be thrown in the brig.
"Bloody gull, sir," Macduff answered humbly. "Broken wing or somethin'. Clawin' at our sail, tearin' it up, and we ain't got no spare. Stuck, we were, no oars and a ruined sail."
"I see," the officer, who obviously did not, said. "Well, I suppose we could lead the boat and carry the two of you back to shore. One too young and the other too old for the navy," he added under his breath.
Macduff pulled out a gun and calmly pointed it at the officer's head. "That won't be necessary, sir," he announced, in the flamboyant, formal voice he used only when talking to officers. "I've taken a fancy to this boat and I must say I like it more. It is the intention of me and my companion to take it."
The officer put a hand on his sword, and Macduff clicked the gun back to fire, before the showdown was interrupted. "Is it?" the cold, somewhat pompous voice could only belong to the commodore. Well, Duff had dealt with enough stuffy English captains in Irish waters, the Spanish Main would be no different. "Then you'll find yourselves in the brig awaiting trial, young man."
Macduff ground his teeth- how obvious was it he was only nineteen? "Have my officer, Johnny; send him to Davy Jones's locker if he fights. I got myself a captain to deal with." As soon as Johnny lifted a gun to the officer, Macduff turned around, drawing his sword. "Engarde," he announced, fumbling with the French command- why couldn't it be in Gaelic?
"This should be beneath my dignity," the commodore answered, nevertheless drawing his blade.
"Say that after I beat you," Macduff answered. Taking the first swing with the sword, he met the commodore with a clash of steel on steel.
Most of the crew looked on, neutral. With sailors under the Union Jack's navy, it was usually against their will, so they'd no reason to cheer their commodore on. But a few of those "honest" sailors would have had dealings with pirates, and would want nothing to do with the Jolly Roger.
"I can't watch," Johnny murmured, one hand over one eye, the other in the direction his gun was pointing.
Macduff, however, was handling himself admirably. It was impossible to tell who he really was within that flurry of parries and jabs- just a pirate, still more boy than man. At least he knew his way around a sword. With the crew gawking, it was difficult to break from the circling pattern they were in, but eventually they'd have to. . . .
Duff finally saw an opportunity. With a sudden lunge at the commodore, he sent the other man stumbling back. "Not so light on your feet, eh?" he asked.
"Shut up," the Englishman growled.
"Oh, but I like this tradition," Macduff argued. He saw how close to the mainmast the commodore was and grinned suddenly.
He went about it slowly, lest the commodore notice, as he maneuvered the Englishman toward the mast, there was abject silene as he worked, save for the lap of sea on ship and the clash of the swords. He led the other man in, slowly, surely, and inevitably the commodore found himself against a wall. Macduff slid the sword against the officer's throat. "Yield?"
"This is no fair fight!"
"I'm a pirate, commodore, what else could you possibly expect? I'll be repeatin' the question, then, shall I? Yield?"
"I'll have the navy after the pair of you dogs, and have you hung!"
"Do I have to kill you to get you to shut up and yield?" Macduff asked in a bored voice.
"I yield."
A demonic grin flittered across the young Irishman's face. "I'd known you'd see things my way eventually, commodore."