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For who can deny that it is repugnant to nature that the blind shall be appointed to lead and conduct such as do see, that the weak, the sick, and the impotent shall nourish and keep the whole and the strong, and, finally, that the foolish, mad, and frenetic shall govern the discrete and give counsel to such as be sober of mind? And such be all women compared to man in bearing of authority.
–John Knox, 1558, The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women
“Right, but—no, hang on.” Stede closes his eyes for a long moment, rubbing the heel of his hand against his forehead. When he opens them, nothing has changed: he’s still on the deck of the Revenge, surrounded by his crew, who are still, apparently— “Are you honestly telling me that everyone on this ship is a woman?”
“Not me.”
“Of course not you, Jim.” Stede has to resist the temptation to roll his eyes. Honestly, the very idea of it! “Obviously you’re not a woman.”
Jim tips their head backward in what Stede chooses to take as a gesture of approval, insofar as Jim has ever approved of anything their captain does. More importantly, and vastly more reassuringly, the knife in Jim’s hand disappears back to wherever they normally keep it.
“Exactly.” Stede nods back, then turns back to the rest of the crew. He takes a moment to look them over, arrayed along the bulwark in varying attitudes of defensive anger, performative nonchalance, and embarrassment. “The rest of you, though…” He shakes his head. “What do you have to say for yourselves, young ladies?”
“Okay, well, listen,” Black Pete says, “I was young, I was stupid, I thought—it doesn’t matter what I thought.” He—she—shakes her head dramatically, as if tossing back locks of hair that she no longer possesses. “All I’m going to say is, when a man tells you he wants to run away together, you want to be sure he really means it.”
“My parents wanted me to get married,” Olu says, voice low and rueful. “I mean, he was nice enough, I guess, but I just—” A shrug. “I couldn’t do it.”
“Oh, same!” Roach holds out a clenched fist until Olu reluctantly reaches out and touches their knuckles together. “Except mine wasn’t a nice man at all. And also I poisoned him.”
“Like, with your cooking, or on purpo—” Lucius breaks off, coughing, as Black Pete elbows him in the stomach.
“I was s’posed to go to the convent,” Wee John says. “But my brother begged to take my place, so we switched.”
Stede blinks, startled. “Wait, really?”
Wee John shrugs. “He just wanted to sing hymns and garden,” she says. “I can’t garden for shit, and I knew they’d catch us out if I stayed, so I hopped on a ship, and here we are.”
“I, ah.” Frenchie scuffs her toes against the deck. “I may be very slightly wanted by the authorities in Barbados? And also Panama City. Oh, and probably Cartagena, although personally I don’t think that should have counted—”
“I did not realize we were hiding this,” the Swede says. “Gun is a woman’s name, ja?”
“Maybe in Sweden it is,” Buttons says, giving the Swede a consoling pat on the shoulder. “And to be truthful, Cap, I thought for sure you’d figured me out, what with the moon-bathing and all.”
“Yes, well.” Stede clears his throat. “It didn’t seem very polite to look, I suppose.”
Which just leaves one person.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lucius screws up his face in a pantomime of bewilderment and disgust. It would almost be convincing, if Stede hadn’t spent the past fortnight adjusting to Lucius’ moods and mannerisms. Instead of saying anything in response, Stede raises one eyebrow and waits, just like he used to when his children refused to wash their hands before supper.
“Ugh, fine,” Lucius says, folding with a speed that Alma in particular would have found disgraceful. “I snuck on to the Golden Starfish to be with Bill Taylor.” She rolls her eyes extravagantly. “Except then he spent the entire trip to Port Royal puking his guts up, which, ew. Plus he couldn’t grow a beard, like, at all.” She shrugs. “So he jumped ship when we hit Jamaica, and I…didn’t.”
Stede nods approvingly. “Thank you for honoring us with your trust, Lucius,” he says. “Or, ah—Lucy, I suppose?”
“Lucinda,” she says with a shudder. “Lucius is fine, please.”
“Very well,” Stede agrees. “Lucius it is.” He turns to the rest of the crew, hands spread. “And the rest of you? Any updates to the old personnel file?” In return, he gets a variety of shrugs, headshakes, and vaguely embarrassed grunts, all of which together seem to add up to a ‘no’, albeit a fairly fainthearted one. “Well, just let me know if you change your mind,” he tells them. “Always important to keep our records up to date!”
That seems to more or less cover the essentials, so Stede brushes his hands together as decisively as he can and turns to go—only to stop and turn back at the sounds of a scuffle behind him.
“Um.” Lucius grimaces, glancing at the rest of the crew. “Captain, we were just—that is, I mean.” She takes a deep breath, visibly steeling herself. “If there’s anything you want to…share…” She spins on her heel and seems to conduct a vicious argument with Olu through the medium of raised eyebrows and significant head-tilts. “Oh, fine,” she says, turning back to Stede with a huff. “If there’s anything you want to tell us,” she says, the emphasis plain in her voice, “we would be…” She rolls her eyes. “‘Honored by your trust’, I guess. Or whatever.”
“Why, Lucius.” For all that they’re grudgingly given, the words strike at something tender and fretful, right at the base of Stede’s rib cage; he has to clear his throat several times before he can string together a response. “That’s very kind of you,” he manages eventually. “I mean, really, tremendously thoughtful. You know,” he adds, reaching for a cheery, people-positive demeanor. “It’s this kind of consideration for others that makes the Revenge a really top-tier vessel.”
For a moment, there’s no response—no sound at all, really, except for the hundred sounds that make up the daily symphony of shipboard life: the creak of wood and rope, the flap of the sails, the gentle susurrus of the waves around them.
“Uh.” Oluwande clears her throat, exchanging a speaking glance with Lucius. “I think what Lucius was trying to say was, ah—” She wrinkles her nose. “I mean, you know about all of us, now, so there’s no reason for you to, you know—”
“I’m afraid I don’t, actually,” Stede says, frowning. “Sorry?”
“Just, you know.” Olu shrugs. “I mean, the jig’s up, so none of us have to pretend any more, right? Like, none of us,” she adds, raising her eyebrows pointedly. “You get what I’m saying?”
“Er, well—” Stede thinks about it, then shakes his head regretfully. “Sorry, I’m still not quite following you.”
“They want to know if you’re a girl, Cap.”
“Jim!” Olu whirls around, frowning. “Jim, come on, you can’t just say it like that!”
Jim shrugs. “You were taking too long.”
“Hang on.” Stede rubs his forehead, grimacing. There’s a spot right between his eyebrows that always aches like fury in the afternoons these days; a reaction to the light on the water, he expects. “Are you suggesting that—” He wrinkles his nose. “What are you suggesting, exactly?”
“I mean.” Wee John shrugs one massive shoulder. “You do own a lot of fancy clothes, Captain.”
“And a fellow can’t take an interest in his grooming?” Stede shakes his head regretfully. “Really, now. I know that we’re pirates, but surely that doesn’t mean we should let go of all standards of decency.”
“It doesn’t?” Roach asks, only to double over, wheezing, when Frenchie digs an elbow into her ribs.
“No, but, but—” Black Pete crosses her arms over her chest, chin thrust out pugnaciously. “When you gave us dance lessons, you always danced the girl’s part.”
Stede frowns. “That was merely a question of practicality,” he tells her. “How else were you supposed to learn how to lead a partner competently?” Truthfully, even with Stede’s guidance, their progress in the rigaudon remains frustratingly slow—but that’s beside the point, not to mention unkind of him to mention. “In any event, plenty of gentlemen know how to dance the lady’s part.”
“Uh huh.” Lucius leans against the bulwark, head tilted and eyebrows furrowed. “And do all of those other gentlemen also take the women’s part when they’re putting on a play?”
“Well, no,” Stede concedes. “It would hardly make sense to have a dozen Juliets and no Romeo, now, would it? Although really,” he adds, “I think I made a much stronger showing in Much Ado About Nothing.” His Benedick—one James Smythe, fifteen, spotty and weak-chinned—had been somewhat disappointing, but such was life.
“...yes, that’s a different play,” Lucius says, presumably in response to a question Stede hadn’t heard. “He did it twice.” She turns back to Stede with the beleaguered expression of a man on the verge of execution, or a sailor faced with one of Roach’s ominously-named Surprise Pies. “Or was it more than twice?”
“Well, when we did Twelfth Night—but, no, that’s not important,” Stede says, raising his voice to address the entire crew. “That’s the theater, my dear fello—er. My dear young ladies, that is.”
“All right, but what about your hair?”
“My—” Stede lifts a hand to the side of his head, bewildered, and turns to face the Swede. “What about it?”
“It’s shiny,” she replies. “And it smells nice.”
“Why, Gun.” It’s the sort of comment that is either endearing or deeply alarming; Stede is choosing to find it charming. “Really, it’s just a simple preparation; I’d be happy to share the recipe—oh, but we’d have to put in to port somewhere and get more clove oil, first.” He frowns, trying to picture the maps Mr. Buttons had gone over with him. “Would Tortuga or New Providence be a better choice, do you think?”
“For pomade?” Lucius rolls her eyes extravagantly. “You’d be better off in the Republic of Pirates.”
“The Republic of Pirates,” Stede echoes. The words sound rich on his tongue, full of promise and adventure. “Yes, of course!” He nods briskly, turning to the bosun. “Mr. Buttons, set course for—”
“Right, but, hang on.” Black Pete steps forward, hands balled on her hips. “Are you seriously trying to tell me you’re not a woman?”
“Well—yes,” Stede replies, nonplussed. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“You hired an entire crew of women—and Jim, obviously—” He nods to Jim, who tugs the brim of their hat in acknowledgement. “What I mean is, you hired all of us by accident?”
“I—yes?” Stede blinks. “That is, it wasn’t an accident to hire you, but it wasn’t—I didn’t—” He shakes his head again. “Honestly, this is a complete surprise.” There’s a sort of generalized mutter, the crew trading meaningful looks and half-voiced comments, and he frowns. “What is it?”
“It’s just, we’re not very convincing?” Wee John scratches at the back of her neck. “We had each other figured out weeks ago.”
“We kind of assumed you knew, I guess,” Oluwande says.
“Wait, really?”
“Well, yeah.” Olu glances at the rest of the crew, who nod in agreement. “We figured it was, you know, kind of a feminist thing,” she adds. “Women supporting women, that sort of deal.”
“Which I personally thought was bullshit,” Pete adds. “Like, I served with Blackbeard, you know? I don’t need some kind of special hiring policy.”
“I…see,” Stede says, even though he’s not entirely sure that he does. “Well, I can assure you that there was no ‘special hiring policy’ in my mind,” he tells them all. “You were all hired based on your excellent qualifications.”
“And because ye were willin’ to accept an untried foplin as your captain,” Buttons adds.
“True enough,” Stede agrees. “Hurtful, but true.” He clears his throat, addressing the crew as a whole. “In any event, I think it’s safe to say your gender played no part at all in your hiring.” He takes a moment to look at them all: his motley crew, brave and clever and strange. “And I see no reason why it should be of any concern going forward.”
Most of the crew seems to relax at this, but Lucius is still frowning
“Right, okay, cool, but.” She raises one eyebrow, head tilted to the side. “Are you sure you’re not a woman?”
“...quite sure, yes,” Stede tells her.
She gives him a long, searching look, then shrugs. “If you say so,” she says. “Whatever.”
“I mean, I suppose I can understand how you could come to that conclusion,” Stede admits. “When I played Desdemona, I was terrifically compelling. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house!” He clasps his hands to his chest, remembering. “‘Alas! he is betray'd and I undone.’”
“I—you know what, no,” Lucius says. “We believe you.” Behind her, the rest of the crew nods agreement.
“Well!” Stede brushes his hands together decisively. “Where were we, then?”
“Setting course for the Republic of Pirates, Cap’n,” the bosun reminds him.
“Of course!” Stede nods. “Away we go, then!”
Perhaps there’s a playhouse of some sort in this Republic of Pirates. Clearly his crew could use a refresher course in the fundamentals of the theater.