Margaret Louise Hawkins

The spray stings her eyes as she brings the tender to shore, a piteous cry from the sloop she previously captained. Only the legacy of the Tanpèt Oseyan that terrorized the seven seas remains. Isadore Brute heaves the boat to shore with a heavy grunt. Running on the fuel of her greatest desire: restoring her former reign. And to do so, she will steal the riches of the late James Hawkins, a former officer in service to the British Empire. Who’s infamous life rivaled her own.

The year is 1732, and the death of James Hawkins turned the tide for pirates everywhere. Just like the death of Captain Isadore Brute. But one thing distinguishes the two—Isadore is very much alive.

When the boat is securely on land, she collapses to the white beach. Sand sticks all over her raggedy trousers and torn shirt as the sun beats down. Her thick black hair tumbled out of her cocked hat from the effort, but she didn’t bother hiding it. Instead, she lays there, taking in the circumstances. Isadore took a major risk rowing from Tortula, but it was the only chance she had of staying undetected. There were rumbles from pirates and British officers alike getting ready to seize Hawkin’s offshore hideaway. Catching wind of a ship making the first move would have created more trouble than she could afford. So she rowed. And rowed. And rowed until her arms wanted to plunge their way into the trenches of Antilles.

By the time she moves again, hues from the last lick of flame settle on the horizon. She must’ve dozed off because when she opens her eyes, she is looking at the shape of a woman.

Margaret Louise Hawkins eyes the foreigner more with a peculiar amusement than potential danger. She’s always in danger. A fact that marooned her on this cursed island ever since her husband got dispelled from his high stature killed at sea; it was only a matter of time. She stands over this stranger in a gold-brocaded silk dress with polychrome flowers mimicking those seen on Chinese porcelain and adorned with jewels. Though she ditched the heavy, dark wool petticoat long ago, causing her dress to sully at the end as it hung off her petite frame, she prefers the freedom of it.

“Who are you,” she said, her back stiffening.

Isadore moves, taking note of every aching muscle in her body. “Affonze Bernard. Where… where am I,” she collapses, playing into her washed-up ruse.

“State your purpose.”

“Purpose… Where am I, miss?”

Margaret tilts her head, a slight gleam in her eye. Oh, they assume they can tick me, do they? Just like men to think women don’t possess the wit to see through their sad attempts.

“Am I to believe you showed up here by accident?”

“What would be my purpose in lying?” Margaret steps on Isadore’s chest, leaning her weight into compressing her airway.

“Fair enough.” Isadore yields, rolling out from under her foot. She gets up.

The sun has dipped far beneath the sea. Now it’s just the two of them, bathed in the soft glow of a waxing moon. In the limited light, they size the other. Margaret is quick to notice the long hair matted down the stranger's back. A woman dressed in boy's rags. She must be running from something. Or towards something else? She mulls it over.

Meanwhile, Isadore notes a similar unkempt, overgrown thistle, and her once beautiful dress now worthless.

In the moments before either of the women make their next move, Isadore takes in her surroundings for the first time. James Hawkin’s island. This is it. Full of treasures from a thousand pirates. It’s dark so that she can’t make out much, aside from the beach, the sound of the crashing waves, and the outline of island brush, but she can see a soft glow of torches in the distance, presumably marking Hawkin’s fortress.

Isadore draws a flintlock pistol from her waistband and aims it directly at Margaret. But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cower. Doesn’t scream. Instead, Margaret takes a step closer, pressing her forehead to the barrel of the gun.

“Kill me, will you?” A hint of desire drips from her words. As if in death, she could escape the prison Hawkins left her.

“If I must.” Isadore eyes her. Not much was known about James Hawkin’s wife, but his greed rotted everything he touched, including Margaret. Looking at her, Isadore realizes there is more than meets the eye. “Who are you, Margaret Louise Hawkins?”

Margaret smiles at the sound of her name, full of teeth that reach something sinister in her eyes. “I imagine I’m someone of interest to you. I do not want to ask again what your purpose here is. You have to say it.”

“You don’t have much leverage to make demands.” Isadore laughs, pressing the barrel deeper into her skin. “I’m here to steal from James Hawkins, that despicable beast.”

“Be my guest,” Margaret said, making a welcoming gesture towards her home.

“You aren’t going to stop me? What is this?” She wants to laugh. Isadore imagines the storm of pirates on this island if people knew how vulnerable she’s made herself.

“It was never really mine to protect. Not from the great Captain Isadore Brut.” Margaret does laugh, letting out a sputter of sharp noises. At that, Isadore finally lowers the pistol branding a small ring on Margaret’s forehead. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen!” She exclaims, her laugh turning into a hysterical cackle. Delighted by catching the pirate off guard. The sadistic, ruthless, evil femme fatale is standing before her, surprised.

Rumor had it that Isadore made so many enemies at sea they finally caught up to her, sinking the unsinkable Tanpèt Oseyan and leaving no survivors. She and her crew lost to the trenches. But that never sat right with Margaret, who always admired Isadore’s freedom. Someone who left men begging for mercy when she pressed the tip of her sword against their necks, spilling the lies from their blood. Few lived to tell the tale. She found it hard to believe someone like that could die so easily.

Maggie remembered the sound of her husband's heavy boots shuffling along the cold floors, the sign of a drunken man stumbling home to his wife. On those nights, he would mumble about Isadore Brut, the only pirate he never laid a hand on. Oh, how his hands wanted to have her in his grasp. Pathetic, Margaret would think. Lying there as he fantasized about another woman. What he didn’t know was that Margaret fantasized about her too. Of being her, setting sail to unknown destinations, and discovering riches or adventure.

And here she is. Having alluded James Hawkins all his life, Isadore Brut voluntarily makes herself known to Margaret. She’s just another woman making do with what she has. Like her. Maybe Isadore wasn’t merciless so much as a woman, hated by the seven seas, Margaret thinks.

“Free me from this island, and you can have whatever you want,” Margaret said.

“And what if I say no? Again, you’re in no place to make demands,” Isadore raises her arm again. This time, she cocks her weapon, making her point.

“Perhaps,” Margaret moves her hand to her breast and pulls from her corset a silver-rimmed vial hung from a long chain. Inside, Isadore could barely make out the swirling black of the darkest sea. She staggers back, dropping her pistol in the sand.

“Where did you get that?” She said.

“Let’s say it was my husband’s parting gift,” Margaret tilts the vial, mesmerized by the insides, seeming to have a life of its own within the caged glass. She had only heard the stories of a dark power locked away in the deepest part of Antilles, guarded by sirens and monsters.

But it wasn’t her husband who found it. For years, Margaret had been calling to the sea, cultivating a relationship with the tide. Until one night, she had a dream of walking off the beach into the ocean floor. Sinking deeper and deeper into the water. She was greeted by a siren’s kiss, and when she woke, soaked through her nightgown, hair sopping wet, she was clutching the vial.

“Despite my husband’s keeping me on land,” Margaret said, still locked in the deep desire to unleash the madichon. “I have always been the sea.”

“He could never have found such—”

“Why? Because no pirate has ever seen this,” Margaret interrupts, voice sharp. “Or you haven’t? You aren’t the greatest pirate to ever sail, but you could be. Say, what would happen if I took a sip?” She pops the cap open.

“You would be damned.”

“Aren’t I already?” She has been waiting for this moment. Just waiting for someone deserving to witness. “Think about it, Captain Isadore Brut. We could rule the seas together. You could forget about these pathetic treasures. They're children’s toys.”

Isadore lets out a short scoff. Leave toys to the men, she thinks.

“So who are you Isadore Brut? Friend or foe?”