One Night at the Pirate's House

The people of Savannah hid whenever they saw those tattered sails approaching the Georgia coast, billowing in the fair winds like storm clouds. But not me, never. I stayed put at the inn, at my station behind the bar. I was only a tavern maid, but I didn't care. I would not hide from the pirates who terrorized this city and stole my only brother.

The men aboard those ships came to my tavern so often that Savannah natives call it the Pirate's House. Somewhere under this inn and tavern, there's a network of tunnels leading to the harbor. Last spring, I realized the pirates were waiting for customers to pass out from too much rum. Then they would carry the men away in the tunnels, placing them aboard ships bound for the Far East. They used them for free labor. Slave labor. Just like the Governor of Georgia, who used my convict father as an indentured servant to pay off his debts to the British crown.

Maybe my brother was aboard a pirate ship in the Caribbean or in the South China Sea. Maybe he was dead. I couldn't tell you.

It was an ordinary spring evening, which meant Savannah was warm, even tropical. It was near on sunset. I was ready.

Annie, the maid who cleaned the rooms for guests, came running down the stairs, waving her arms. “Elisabeth! The buccaneers are coming!” she said, running to slide a wooden plank through the hook in the door. It was all we had for a lock, and it was pitiful. Especially right now.

"Turn off the lights. Make it look as if no one is here," Annie said. "That was what the mayor instructed."

“Don’t,” I replied, rushing over to the door to slide the useless bit of wood right back out. It was a fool's errand, anyhow. The pirates knew we were open all night--which is why they liked this place.

“You don’t understand, Ellie,” Annie said, out of breath. “It’s Johnny Marauder and his crew."

"I know," I said. "The same men who came last May, when my brother made the stupid choice to drink with them. I warned him...."

My voice trailed off. Annie was ignoring me anyway.

“Johnny Marauder is threatening to burn this place down!” she exclaimed. “He says there’s treasure hidden in the cellar. And if we don’t let him find it, he’ll lock us inside and set the inn alight.”

“I invite him to try,” I replied. “And anyhow, I have some questions for him. Such as what happened to that Savannah policeman who disappeared after a night of imbibing. Also, my brother.”

“Your brother is not coming back, Ellie,” she said softly. “’Tis been a year.”

“I will give up searching for him when I smell his odiferous corpse for meself,” I said, and that silenced her.

“Speaking of odiferous,” I muttered, watching the ragged crew streamed into my tavern.

The last man through the door was surprisingly clean. He was also holding a forlorn-looking pup, his hair all shaggy and matted. His front leg was wrapped, mummy-like, in a bandage down to the paw.

“That’s him!” Annie whispered in my ear from behind.

I reached out and scratched the dog behind the ears. He responded with a grateful lick at my hands. “I didn’t know Johnny Marauder was so fluffy,” I said. “He could use some grooming, no?”

“Not the dog, you fool,” Annie hissed. “The man!”

The pirate seemed surprised I was more interested in his pet than in him. “He cut himself,” he says curtly. “I tried to bandage him, but there’s nothing else to be done. Now where’s that cellar?”

I took the dog from his hands, which, again, surprised him. “Dirty bandages won’t do a bit o’ good,” I said, the Irish brogue rearing its head again. It was the only inheritance my father left me. “Let me handle this.”

First, I cleaned the wound with clear liquor, which would clean the infected flesh. It stings, of course, and the dog howled. Johnny Marauder narrowed his eyebrows. “What’re you doing to my dog?”

“Saving his leg, that’s what,” I replied, looking up at him. “With all that rum aboard your ship you should know how to use it.”

After sanitizing the wound, I slathered it with raw honey. I sent Annie to get strips of linen for fresh bandages. It was getting dark outside. I could see the man across the street standing at his window with a single candle, watching us. This town was scared stiff of pirates. But not me.

Johnny took the dog when I finished.

“Smart of you,” he said grudgingly. “I never would think to use honey, or liquor, for that matter.” We both saw his crew ogling us as they harassed Annie for drinks. Aware of their watchful eyes, Johnny straightened his back.

“Show me your cellar,” he demanded again.

“Why? ’Tis dark and dirty down there, full of cobwebs,” I replied. “There is nothing to see—aside from that tunnel where you smuggle away captive men.”

“Cock an’ bull,” Johnny spit back, sounding indignant. “No one joins the crew as a captive. My fodder was a captive in Australia. It's not my way."

The way he pronounced “father” as “fodder” pricked my ears. Johnny Marauder had grown up speaking a foreign language. He turned to the dog as I grabbed a lantern and led them both down the stone stairway to the cellar. The dog whimpered.

“Don’t be afraid, Donegal,” Johnny said. I smiled without being able to help myself.

“Donegal? Is that your native county in Ireland?” I asked.

Johnny looked at me, round-eyed. It gave his perpetually angry, bearded face a more boyish look. “How did you know?”

“I was born there,” I replied. “My father came to Georgia as a convict when it was a penal colony. My brothers and I came with him. He served his seven years but we never went back.” I turned to face him, where he could see me in the lamplight.

"Anyhow, your manner of pronouncing 'father' told me you grew up speaking the Irish language," I said. "My own father struggled with pronouncing those sounds. And I'm not wrong, am I?"

He looked irritated with me for knowing.

“Shine the lamp over there, will ya?”

“I will. I am,” I replied. “But one thing—my only surviving brother, Brendan. You know what became o’ him, don’t you?”

“Brendan? I don’t know any Brendan.” Johnny replied too quickly. “Shine your light over here.”

“I told you there’s nothing of value down here,” I said, casting my lantern over the casks. “It’s a wine cellar. There’s wine. Lots of wine, but nothing else.”

Donegal, the dog, began barking at the straw mask suspended from the ceiling. My father had hung it there before he died. He was the only person who came down here, besides the pirates who knew the route through the secret tunnels.

“What’s that?” Johnny asked, pointing. “Are you a mummer?”

I looked up at the mask. It might appear grotesque and frightening to someone unfamiliar with the tradition of mummering. Clearly, Johnny had seen a straw-man mask before.

“It was my father’s,” I said. “We went mummering every year in Donegal, before the crops failed and we fell into debt. We invited mummers into our cottage as well. There was a boy, always a head taller than me, who dressed up as Conchobar mac Nessa, King Conor of Ulster. He put up a fierce swordfight.”

I turned to look at Johnny Marauder again, who has a long dagger secured on his waistband. “That lad was an expert with his sword.”

Johnny was staring at me with an expression that verged on sheepishness. His face reddened. “I played King Conor in full armor made of tinfoil,” he said. “My ma made it for me, God rest her soul.”

Now he squinted at me. “We went to a cottage in the county where a swarm of red-haired children lived,” he said. “There was a girl there about me age, with hair like yours. Red as a cherry.”

He straightened again, crossing his arms over his chest. “And you’re right, there’s nothing down here,” he said.

“Thank you for acknowledging my rightness,” I said. “Are you still going to burn the place down?”

“What? No.”

“Well, ’tis what I heard.”

“Are you going to impale me with a corkscrew when I turn my back?” Johnny asked. I burst out laughing.

“Who in the world told you that?”

Johnny winked. “Your brother, Brendan,” he said with a shrug. “Fortunately, you’re not as scary as I expected.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him as I swept toward the stairs, lifting my skirts out of the dust. “Neither are you.”

The bar overflowed with drunken pirates, laughing and spitting. Even Annie had a smile of relief on her face. Some of the crew were missing teeth, eyes—even a leg in one instance, replaced by a wooden peg. But they looked less scary now, although still in sore need of a bath. Annie passed around a basket of ripe Georgia fruit. The crew, always trying to ward off scurvy, gobbled it with gratitude.

I took down a bottle of rum. “Care for a drink?” I asked Johnny.

“No rum for me, m’lady,” he said. He removed the thuggish-looking bandanna from his head, placing it over his heart like a tricorn hat. “Never did care for it.”

It was my turn for surprise. “Wine?” I offered instead.

“Yes, wine would suit me, but only the kind that’s red as your hair.”

He watched me pour his glass. “So, what is your real name?” I asked. “I take it ‘Marauder’ is not one of the clans of Donegal.”

“John Doherty,” he said with a bashful sigh.

“Well, my name is Elisabeth O’Neill,” I said. “And I still want to know what happened to my brother.”

“Relax. He’s a leg behind me, on the next ship coming into harbor tonight,” John said, looking at me above his wine. “What if I told you he was no captive? That he left to get away from the tavern life? He wanted some adventure, so I took him to China. He also wanted to bring some money home to you, so that you wouldn’t have to work here any longer.”

I poured my own glass of wine.

“I would say you’re a liar,” I said.

“Is that so, Ellie?” he said pointedly, revealing he already knew the name my family called me. “Well, methinks you’re lying about the silver in the cellar. It’s here somewhere. But you’re a lovely lass and I don’t want to push me luck.”

“If there were any silver in the cellar,” I said with a laugh, “I wouldn’t be workin’ here.”

As the night pressed on, Johnny Doherty proved he wasn’t lying about one thing. Another ship’s lights were aglow in the Savannah Harbor.

“I’m off to bed,” I told Johnny. “It’s past two o’clock in the morning. If I stay up any later, it will be time to rise again for the next day.”

He finally got up from his seat at the bar and began trailing me. I turned around on the stairs.

“Are you following me?”

“I was always told to escort the lady home at the end of the evening,” Johnny said. “Even if her home is the upstairs at the inn.” He offered me his arm.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Doherty,” I said. “Considering you still have that sword at your side, you haven’t forgotten all your manners.”

At my door, he stopped, taking my face between both his hands. He tugged at the single red ringlet coming loose from my chignon. “I was the swordfighter boy who played King Conor of Ulster,” he said. “And you—I suspect it was you. You were the girl with the red hair. I can tell by your eyes.”

We stared at each other for a second before I turned the knob. “Goodnight, Mr. Doherty,” I said. “I assume you’ll be back to sea tomorrow?”

“Me? Oh no,” he said. “I was hoping to retire from the sea. Maybe settle down in Savannah, if the people would have me.”

“Without that bandanna and your ragtag crew, I doubt anyone would recognize you,” I said. I entered the room, letting him linger in the doorway. I stepped on the uneven floorboard with the loud creak. Johnny jumped at the noise.

“Don’t look so startled,” I said. “That board has always been loose. My father was always trying to hammer it back into place. But he died several years ago, and I’m not one for hammering.”

Johnny stepped on it, listening to it groan. “Do you mind if I look underneath?” he asked.

“Why?”

Wordlessly, he pulled the floorboard loose. Underneath it, coated with dust, were several old velvet satchels. They were indigo blue, the priceless dye—the color of royalty.

“It was here!”

He grabbed my hand, opening it with the palm facing skyward. He dropped three small pieces of silver into it.

“It looks like you’ve found your treasure, Mr. Doherty,” I said. My eyes were tearing from weariness, and my head was spinning. I didn’t know what else to say.

“Aye, my dear,” he said, closing his hand over mine. “In fact, I found two.”