It wasn’t until they had been at sea for some time that Slate or Hatty realized they weren’t alone on the Jean Bee. Sometime after breakfast, but before high noon, a small cacophony starting emanating from the Captain’s cabin. First was a thud and a shattering of glass, then there was a boom, and then a constrained moan of pain that found release in the salty air when the cabin door burst open and the pirate captain fell out onto the deck. He was obviously very hung-over, if not still drunk, and he smelled as awful as he looked.
“It’s the captain!” Slate exclaimed.
Hatty set the wheel and came down from the sterncastle, laughing.
“Looks like we have a stowaway!” he said.
“What’s all this?” the captain barked, confused by the open sea around him. “Who are you two?” he demanded, trying to appear in charge of the situation and himself.
Pilotte rose his head, observed the fumbling captain, yawned, and went back to sleep.
“Who are we?” Hatty asked. “Might I ask, who are you? And what are you doing aboard our ship?”
Slate didn’t miss a beat. “Indeed. And why is it you should be in our cabin, sir?” he asked, moving to within inches of the captain’s oily face.
The usurped captain looked pathetically confused as he spun to and fro around the deck, scratching himself and trying to make sense of what was happening. “Command me? But I’m the captain of the ship. Who do you think you are?” he asked. “Where is everyone else?”
“Oh, he must not be well,” Hatty said with an affected sigh. “He thinks he’s the captain of our ship.”
“I am Captain Verialus Cointer, I am in charge of this sloop, and I take my governance from no one but myself,” the captain growled with a grimace as he reached for the thunder stick tucked in his belt. He fumbled and dropped the heavy object onto the deck, where Hatty easily kicked it out of his reach and retrieved it.
“Well, it seems as if you’ve just issued yourself your termination papers,” Hatty said with a laugh as he tucked the quickshot into the sash sitting high around his waist. “Your services aboard this vessel are no longer required.”
“What is that, anyways?” Slate asked Hatty of the captain’s weapon.
“This here is a quickshot,” Hatty said. He held the apparatus up over his head and pulled its trigger to demonstrate how it was used. The device went off with a loud bang and a poof of smoke.
“What’s the point of such a thing? Distraction?” Slate asked.
“Well, it’s not just noise and smoke, see...” Hatty said. He aimed the quickshot at the door of the captain’s cabin. With a second explosion, Slate saw that the device actually launched projectiles, as evidenced by two smoldering holes through the door and out the opposite wall.
“Pretty fancy, eh?” Hatty asked. “Terrible weapon, though. Cowardly.”
“What, have you never seen a quickshot before?” Verialus asked Slate. He was now sitting cross-legged on the deck, wearing a pitiful look of defeat. “I’ve just been overtaken on my own ship by a man who has never even seen a quickshot before,” he moaned to the sky.
“Sir, perhaps you should return to bed until your senses are stronger,” Slate said to Verialus.
“I don’t wish to! You cannot tell me how to act!” the captain said obstinately. “This is my ship!”
“But oh, it’s not, and yes, we can,” Hatty said, gripping the quickshot menacingly.
“But! But!” the captain sputtered, until he finally stood up, threw his hat down, stopped to steady himself, and then tottered into his quarters. A loud thud and the sound of snoring followed soon after.
“Impressive method of control, that,” Slate said of the quickshot. “May I see it?”
“Well now…” Hatty said with a deep breath. “I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”
“Why not?” Slate asked.
“Because if you had it," Hatty said, "Then I wouldn’t, and that just wouldn’t be good at all. To give you all that power.”
"What, don't you trust me?" Slate asked.
Hatty smiled and shook his head no.
“But you've no reason not to," Slate said.
“Yes, but I can trust myself," Hatty explained. "See, I’d let you see it if I had another for myself, but as long as there is only one, I prefer it stay in the hands of someone I know intimately.”
Slate understood what Hatty meant, but still, so long as Hatty had the weapon, and was awake, Slate was under his subjugation. Hatty seemed benevolent though, and maybe even trustworthy, sacrificing himself as he had to help escape the island.
Slate and Hatty hardly slept during the rest of the trip to Jaidour, which was hastened by an early Searching Season storm system that blew up from the southern sea. Under pitch-black clouds which poured their fury down on the sloop, they talked about trivial things to pass the time. Pilotte regained his strength during the journey, and the three became something like friends, though the quickshot and Hatty’s reserve kept them from growing too close.
By the grace of nature on the fifth day the beacon from the lighthouse of Jaidour pierced through the rain in pulses as it illuminated the angry atmosphere, calling the Jean Bee out from the madness of the storm towards the sandy cliffs of the western Protersian coast.
Chapter 14