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It happens in the summer before Israel Hands turns ten years old.
He remembers a time before the workhouse, the hovel he’d lived in with his mother and older sister Ellie. Mum had been beautiful, strong-featured with dark brown hair. Ellie had taken more after Da, black hair and dark eyes. Lost at sea, Mum said, and Israel had no reason to doubt her.
He keeps Mum’s ring hidden – sometimes in his shoe, sometimes on a string tied to his belt, hung safely between fabric and skin. The doctor had refused to take it as payment, saying it was too late for his remedies to be of use. “You’ll have to go somewhere,” he said, and because he was kind, and important enough to be a doctor, Israel had listened. It wasn’t as if there was anywhere else to go when you were seven years old and poor.
At the workhouse he learns how to write his name, and how to do basic sums. He gets something to eat two or three times a day. He learns about the Word of God, and how God created a soulmate for everyone on His green earth – but that was common knowledge, something his mum had already taught him. Some of the other boys have soulmarks already on their skin, little shapes in white or pink or brown or black.
By age ten he’s still small but he’s tough, and any boy that can do manual labor is set to it sooner rather than later. He spends his days picking apart sections of rope: first separating the large, twisted strands, then the smaller pieces of yarn, and finally the tiny hemp fibers. His hands crack and bleed after only two days. Someone gives him bandages for the worst of it and salve for the rest, and eventually he forms calluses that protect him from bleeding. He hates the work but takes some pride in the toughening of himself. A man’s hands, he thinks, like his father the sailor. He imagines men like his father using the oakum fibers to patch up the ships that carry them far away to unknown lands, to freedom.
It’s there on the workhouse floor, a month before Israel’s tenth birthday, that his mate James leans over and says, “Oi, there’s something on your face.” Israel blows a stream of air from the side of his mouth up towards his cheek, thinking it’s a bug or loose fiber strand. “No, dummy. It’s black. Like… a little star or something. Is that…?”
“What is it?” Israel asks, brushing at his skin.
“I think that’s your soulmark come in, mate,” James grins. He taps his own mark, a swirl of white on the back of his left forearm.
“Oh,” says Israel, unsure how to process the fact that somewhere in the world, his soulmate has been born. There’s a small ripple of conversation around them, boys eager for news to break up the tedium of their work.
“Looks like you’ll have a pretty young wife one day, Hands,” one of the watchmen leers. “Lucky lad.”
At fourteen Israel runs for it, with nothing but the scraps of hard bread he’s been saving all week, the clothes on his back, and Mum’s ring on a string around his neck. Once he’s out of the parish he continues west and follows the sun until he reaches the water; it’s hot but the salt air invigorates him. He has good manners when he needs to, and gets directions to the port easily enough from the fishermen he encounters.
The harbor is unlike anything he’s seen before. The workhouse was large and impressive, but it was meant to keep things contained, hidden away. Here, masts stretch up to graze the heavens, sails wait to be unfurled. Men and beasts and cargo go up the gangplanks of smaller vessels, or are loaded into boats to be shuttled further out to the largest ships. Izzy watches the sailors go about their business and finds himself captivated by their language, their tattoos, the camaraderie between them. This is a place of beginning.
After walking and observing for the better part of an hour, Israel approaches a man standing behind a small table containing a book, a little flag, and a quill in an inkwell. He’s seen men walk up to the table, write something in the book, shake the man’s hand, and take a dinghy out to the grandest ship in the harbor, the one that boldly flies a flag to match the one beside the book.
He rubs his mum’s ring through his shirt and marches up to the table.
“I want to sail,” he says to the man behind the table, putting on his sternest face. The man grunts and sizes him up.
“Show me your hands,” he says. Israel pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and proudly holds his palms out for inspection. He’d been moved from oakum-picking to rock-breaking within his last year at the workhouse. He might be smaller than most, might have only the barest wisps of dark hair on his chin, but he’s strong. Practically a man, he thinks.
The man’s callused hand sweeps over his own. “Not bad. Write your name here.” Israel bites down his smile of triumph as the man taps the book. “Or I’ll do it.”
“I can write my name,” Israel says, feeling like he could take down Goliath himself right now. He’s out of practice but remembers the shapes and the motions well enough to form the letters with the quill: Israel Hands.
The man glances down. “Right. Welcome to the King’s Navy, Mr. Hands.”
These are the things that Israel learns at sea:
First, the entire world is capricious and cruel. Clinging to his mum's hand as she lay dying, or bleeding his fingers to ribbons at the workhouse, or going under the lash at a captain's whim – it's all the same, harsh and unfair wherever he goes.
Second, despite all that, he is a capable sailor. He may never be an officer, not a man like him, who’s come from no one and nothing. But he knows his knots. He can mend a sail and pump the bilge and keep watch tirelessly. He even learns how to read maps, how to set courses by the tides and stars, when the navigator takes note of his interest. A cruel world, yes, but one he can find his way around.
Third, having your fate written on your face is more trouble than it's worth. He's inexperienced but not naive, so the first time someone says, "I've got the same one, wanna see?" Israel punches him before his hands can go somewhere unwanted. The lashes for fighting are worth it, every lick of pain accepted on his own terms. He learns how to fight with his fists and a sword, develops a reputation for himself. Let people know him by something other than a stupid mark.
At twenty-five, Israel answers the Navy's call to make the Atlantic crossing, to protect the Empire's interests in the islands and colonies far away. He understands that it's a month at sea, that rations will be spread thin, that most men who make the trip don't care to make it twice.
"What if your lassie's an English rose?" one of his mates teases him before he sets off. Alfie has a sunburst on the back of his hand, a match to the one his Lana has on her shoulder. He won't make the crossing, wants to stay close enough to be able to visit her in port.
Israel shrugs it off with a smile and a halfhearted joke. It hadn't even crossed his mind – he can go well enough without. He's never on land long enough to meet anyone, staying busy on the ship, keeping hands and eyes to himself. The odds have always been stacked against him, anyway. Fate can get fucked, for all it's done for him.
It's not that piracy comes naturally to Israel. It's just that it isn't all that different from the Navy, at the end of the day. A ship is a ship. The work is the same; sail, swab, stab, repeat. The men are crude and rowdy, but at least they don't act like they're better than him. None of his new officers were born sucking on silver spoons; none of them have titles and accolades that they didn't earn.
Still, the Ranger has its own hierarchy and order. Israel keeps his head down and works hard. A little competence goes a long way, and Captain Hornigold seems to recognize that. Israel is made quartermaster’s mate within a year, and while he hasn’t been green in a long time, he’s never been in charge of other men before. He’s nearly thirty, a couple of gray strands standing out from the brown in his hair, and he realizes he isn’t young anymore.
Of course, nothing drives that home more than being surrounded by the young.
Edward Teach is twenty-one, full of boundless energy, with clever fingers and a wicked smile. He’d briefly made a living as a pickpocket at Port Royal; one day he was running from a mark, and bolted straight up the gangplank of a ship to get away. And the rest is history, he says – if he’s to be believed. Israel has heard a handful of variations. In one he hid in a cargo crate full of vegetables and was discovered by the cook, cheerfully munching on a carrot. In another version he wasn’t a pickpocket at all, but an apprentice leathersmith who’d had to go on the run after being caught rolling in the hay with his employer’s daughter.
It’s all ridiculous, but young men like to brag, and Teach is well-liked among the men. Free with his smiles and jokes, he seems to make friends easily with all sorts. Jack Rackham in particular is always close by, wisecracking and laughing too loudly. Yet despite his many friends, Teach starts hanging around him of all people.
It takes Israel a while to catch on, mostly because he finds the young man's behavior so befuddling. Teach will ask another crewman to shove over in the mess so he can cram himself at Israel's left side. At first his mealtime conversation attempts are stilted, met with Israel's brusque, businesslike answers. Is it true you were in the Navy? Yes. How many ships have you sailed on? Six, including this one. Would they hang you for desertion? Yes, if they didn't get him for piracy first.
Israel gets used to him, and the comments and questions grow bolder. Was the Navy bloodier than this? Teach asks. What's the craziest thing you've seen at sea? Do you think another earring would suit me?
"You ask too many questions," he says one day, when Teach asks if he's ever been married.
"If you don't like it, stop answering," Teach says, and picks sulkily at his bowl of slop.
Israel hides his smile in his mug.
"No, I've never been married."
Teach looks sideways at him and grins. "That's another thing in common, then."
"Another thing?"
"Sure." He drops his spoon into his bowl and begins counting on his fingers. "Summer birthdays. Both pirates. Never married." He pauses. "Look good in black."
Israel almost spills his drink, pretends his face isn't going red while Teach smirks and carries on with his meal.
Teach isn't even wearing black.
On still nights with fair weather, the men sit on deck and play music, or swap stories. Israel likes the quiet camaraderie of it, how even sitting alone with his back to a barrel, he feels part of something. But tonight he's not alone.
“The snake,” Teach says, pointing out another constellation he knows, tracing the line of the creature’s shape where it stretches across the heavens. “Like my tattoo.” He has the outline of a huge scaly snake curling down his arm and onto his hand. Often when they have a bit of down time, Rackham or another of the lads colors in some of the scales. Teach has plenty of tattoos already for someone so young, a thick band and a large cross on his right arm, the twisting tendrils of octopus arms on his left bicep. Scattered in the empty spaces are dozens of tiny crosses that Teach does himself when the mood strikes. The ones on his right arm are a little shakier.
“Pegasus,” says Israel, pointing out the square that forms its body. “It’s a magic horse, wings or something. It can fly, at any rate.” Once he’s sure Teach sees what he’s talking about, he takes a swig of his rum ration. Teach's is gone already.
“Horses are amazing,” Teach enthuses. “Before I went to sea, I tended horses on a farm–”
Israel casts him a skeptical look. “I thought you were a pickpocket. No, wait, it was a leatherworker’s apprentice.”
Teach’s mouth snaps shut. He casts his eyes down upon the deck, abashed. For some reason, Israel feels guilty. Who the fuck is he to make Teach look like that, to dim his light?
Israel shrugs, tries to backtrack. “It doesn’t matter. Most of us come from dirt.” Teach doesn’t answer, though his gaze flicks back up to the stars. Israel clears his throat. “Before I went to sea, I was in a workhouse in Bristol. Fucked off when I was fourteen and never looked back.”
Teach glances over at him. “Me too,” he says. “Fucked off when I was fourteen, I mean. Not the workhouse part, or Bristol. Or England at all.” Israel offers a tentative smile and Teach continues wistfully. “I like horses, though. I slept in a stable, for a little while. They were nice.” Then Teach inhales sharply, squares his shoulders. “I’ve got plans,” he says resolutely. “Everyone’s gonna know my name.” His dark eyes lift to the heavens, like he’s challenging God Himself.
“I believe you,” Israel says, and it’s true. He hates how soft his voice is, how easily the words came, but there they are.
“Yep,” Teach says. “They’ll all know me. Edward Teach, born on a beach.”
Israel scoffs, but it’s fond now. “You weren’t born on a beach.”
“Says you,” Teach grins, nudging Israel's arm with his elbow. There’s a warmth in Israel’s chest that isn’t from the rum, a sense of hope and want that he can’t quite place. “I might have been.”
Israel has never seen a volcano erupt, but he’s heard stories. The mutiny happens something like he imagines that would be: rage simmering deep below until it burns everything in its path.
Could he have stopped it? Probably. He had heard enough rumors to put it together by himself, to know who the major sources of dissent are. Of course Teach is involved. By the time Teach told him the plan – I can trust you, right? – he'd already decided he didn't care. Hornigold isn't the worst captain he's sailed under, but he's trying to live in two worlds: fearsome pirate and loyal son of England. Eventually you've got to make a decision, and when it matters, Israel makes his.
In the aftermath, there are more decisions to be made: a new captain elected, loyalists thrown into the brig until they reach port or have a change of heart, word sent out to the rest of the fleet. Israel would keep his job, if they'd allow it, but Teach pulls him aside.
"I want to start new," he says, standing close to Israel in the shadows. "Somewhere else."
Teach's hand is tight on his arm, but he doesn't shake it off. "You just helped take the ship. Now you want to leave?"
"When we make port, I want to put together a crew, the right people. We'll take a ship of our own. This was just the beginning." Teach's face tells of possibility, excitement, a world for the taking. "Come with me."
Israel scoffs. The world, he knows, is cruel and full of uncertainty. "You're mad."
Teach drops Israel’s arm and crowds him, backing him against the wall. He still has blood on his shirt, and his dark hair is wild around his determined face. "I want you to come with me."
Israel looks up at him, at this fierce, insatiable young thing. If it were anyone else trapping him in with his body, Israel would expect violence, would be looking for an opening to escape. His heart is hammering nervously, but he doesn’t want to get away. Instead he speaks the only word that he can draw to mind: "Why?"
Teach's eyes glitter with the promise of an answer. He tugs up his right sleeve and points to one of the dozens of black crosses there. It's on his inner forearm, and the black lines are clean and precise, unlike his shaky handiwork that surrounds it.
"This one's not a tattoo," he says.
Startled, Israel looks up at him before grasping Teach’s forearm and rubbing over the mark with his thumb. His words slowly settle into Israel's ears and flow through his body like warm water, ending with a weighty anticipation in his gut and a lightness in his head. He'd thought he'd fled from fate, fighting and spitting, choosing to make his own way. It can't be standing in front of him, thousands of miles from home, in the form of this brash, bloodstained, beautiful man.
"Say something," Teach says, reaching his fingertips up to graze Israel's cheek, over the mark that connects them.
He's never been a romantic, or good with words. But in his chest he knows that this man's ambition will topple mountains one day. He knows that Teach’s extended hand means to pull Israel up with him and keep him close forever. His soulmate.
He licks his lips and speaks, hoarse but certain. "I'll come with you."
Teach's smile is boyishly sweet with undisguised joy, and his kiss is even sweeter.