To relieve the gloom, look at this pretty picture of young Bill Turner by justawench.


Bill Turner had no luck with women. This was odd because he was tall and strong with clear blue eyes, waves of brown hair, and skin clear and fair as a slice of apple. (When he'd been sailing in sunny climes, it turned dark and smooth as spiced honey.) Since he also had a kind manner and rough charm, his bad luck must have been of his own making. Partly, it came of not smiling enough, but it ran a lot deeper than that. Perhaps it was that women had no luck with Bill Turner.

~

Bill was born Villam Tornquist in the tiny hamlet of Fårstorp on the Swedish island of Öland, raised a good Chapel lad and a hard worker. He learned that the greatest virtues were obedience, diligence, and humility; also, to his quiet satisfaction, that he possessed all three. He knew the worst sin of all was lust, but he couldn't yet imagine what that might be.

But Villam grew. His moods turned dark and he fell prey to wild outbursts, bouts of rage that caused those around him to fear mischief—to himself or others. Hushed conferences were held in the Tornquists' tidy parlour and the room behind the Chapel, the upshot of which was an invitation to take coffee alone with a somewhat flustered Pastor Fogge.

Over sweet pastries on the pastor's blue china, Villam learned that sometimes a grown man might find himself troubled by certain urges that were somehow connected with women. Women were not to blame—on the contrary, they must be protected from men's wickedness.

These masculine needs were to be resisted as far as spiritual strength permitted, but no further. Indeed, to deny them utterly was to court the sin of pride, and worse. (Villam imagined a headlong plunge into some black-hearted insanity best not pictured, even in his mind's eye.)

To prevent spiritual damage to himself and danger to innocent females, Villam might, as a last resort, have recourse to the judicious application of his own hand (not over-frequently, lest it sap his vital force). Such concession to human weakness fell regrettably short of the ideal, but was preferable to insanity or exposing sweet, chapel-going girls to the distressingly sinful nature of men.

Thus enlightened, Villam found that by slaking his animal needs as often as necessary (which was alarmingly often), he could almost forget them betweentimes. His behaviour (at least between brief, barely acknowledged episodes of slaking) soon returned to its exemplary steadiness.

Nonetheless, on the basis that the Devil finds work for idle hands, and a few extra dalers would come in useful, Villam was sent with his uncle Lars to do summer work on a herring boat, the Katarina, which sailed from the nearby port of Degerhamn. Here he learned—from comments deftly tossed and caught between men on the dockside—of other ways to still masculine hungers: with the help of a girl already too far fallen to suffer harm, or perhaps with a fellow man in the same plight.

He saw no reason to dwell on the precise nature of his hunger, nor on why it was provoked by being at sea—just where absence of privacy and fallen women made it most awkward to quench. Instead, he resigned himself to fate, praying for forgiveness even as he mastered the language of the sidelong glance, the half-smile over the shoulder at the entrance to some quiet alleyway, the lingering hand, and the parting nod that said, "Thanks, mate. That never happened. But it might happen again."

Life on the Katarina was hard and dangerous for one such as Villam. A herring boat is a little, domestic craft, a floating outpost of the port she sails from. The Katarina put to sea only when tide and herring shoals favoured her. Even then, she set sail at dusk, drifted her nets where the fish fed, and hauled them in at first light to scurry back to Degerhamn for hot oatmeal (washed down with akvavit if the catch had been good). While the main crew went home to sit by the fire or help wives and mothers salt the fish, Villam and Lars would set off—generally through rain or drizzle—over the hill to Fårstorp.

Most of the hands were married, and even the youngsters were courting; their needs, if they struck, did so mostly on dry land. Only young Kai seemed pricked by the same demons. It was hard for two lads to steal moments alone on a boat where, on a still night, the man at the stern rudder could chat comfortably with the bow lookout. And they were never at sea for long.

Nonetheless, there were a few sweet, snatched moments among the herring crates or behind rolls of net, balanced precariously between shame and terror and something else that made Villam's blood thrum and blaze—that made him feel alive. Sometimes, old Jens would stomp by on some errand, but he only sighed and clicked his tongue, or hummed the old song about partridges in spring. Perhaps his indulgence made them careless. Perhaps it was only a matter of time.

Oddly, Villam could never remember exactly where they were—somewhere in the hold, of course—but he was pressed up tight against Kai, held gloriously fast in Kai's hot, calloused fist, and he remembered tipping his head back and mouthing silent obscenities at the underside of the deck, pale darts of moonlight glancing down where the caulking had worked loose between the heavy, black planks. He was close, so blessedly close that his eyes squeezed shut, eyelashes scattering the light like a shoal of startled fish. He scarcely noticed when Kai stopped thrusting against his thigh, but then the lad stepped back with a gasp, whisking his fingers from Villam's member as though they'd been whipped.

There, hunched in the low doorway, stood Uncle Lars with a lantern in his hand and a look of revulsion on his face. Horribly exposed by Kai's retreat and the harsh light of the lantern, Villam tried to push his shame inside his breeches, but his animal flesh refused to subside. The best he could do was to cover himself with his hands as he mumbled apologies and stared at the cracked toes of Uncle Lars' boots, tears of humiliation stinging behind his eyes.

~

This time, the blue china stayed on the dresser. (The pastor from Degerhamn was offered coffee, but declined: the matter was too grave.) Villam sat on a low stool, Pastor Fogge perched on the front of his rocking chair, and the two visitors shared the long oak bench. Kai kept his face turned from Villam and wept big, helpless tears.

"The Lord takes pity on the weak and vengeance on the wicked," pronounced the Pastor from Degerhamn, shooting a black look at Villam. "I have spoken with Kai. The lad is young, ignorant, and foolish, but nothing worse. Note that he kept his breeches buttoned."

"Is this true?" asked Pastor Fogge.

"Yes! I didn't know, I swear. I didn't know it was wrong. It was Villam's idea, all of it, and it was only that one time." Kai sobbed, wetly, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "I didn't like it. It made me feel sick. I promise I'll never do it again."

"Villam?" Pastor Fogge's face seemed almost kind, but Villam knew he was doomed. Even in his numbed state, he remembered more than one time, but the core of Kai's story was suddenly, horribly true: it was all Villam's fault. How could he ever have thought Kai wanted what he wanted?

"It was me," he whispered. "I made him do it."

Kai promised to rise early every morning and pray for forgiveness; then he and the Degerhamn pastor went home, leaving Villam and Pastor Fogge to finish alone.

"Oh, Villam," murmured the pastor, shaking his head. "An innocent young boy. Have you no restraint? If, at least, it had been with a woman, perhaps we could build something from the ruins, but this... vileness... is beyond help."

Villam almost told him then: almost explained how he'd tried his own hand, but it hadn't been enough, tried the Widow Flink, but hadn't been able to go through with it. How he'd rolled in the tall, mist-damp grass with Lotta Evasdotter's hand in his breeches and his knee under her bunched skirts, but none of it had been enough, not when Kai smiled at him all flushed and sparkly. He almost told how he'd seen Kai last Midsummer Eve, rosy with dancing and akvavit, stumbling into the hayloft with Bengt Persson, and Bengt's hand on Kai's rump. How he'd thought... But now he could see it was false. Kai couldn't have known: Kai was an innocent sucked into the mire of Villam's depravity. So he hung his head and said nothing.

He was allowed home only to collect his belongings, accompanied by the Pastor Fogge. His mother wept and pressed a cloth bundle into his hands. He felt a heavy loaf and a small cheese inside. Later, he'd find five copper coins pressed into the cheese.

"God forgive you, Villam!" she sobbed. But she turned away when he tried to put his arms around her. His father, sisters and younger brother were nowhere to be seen.

~

The journey by cart and ferry to the mainland port of Kalmar passed in near silence: Pastor Fogge pointed out hills that appeared through the mist, exclaimed at occasional showers of hail, and tried to prepare Villam for their destination, but it was a one-sided conversation.

At the inn, Villam lay awake and heard the creak of rigging from Kalmar harbour and the pastor's snores from the other side of the bed (insulated from Villam by a roll of blankets). He dimly remembered talk of sailing to foreign parts, but he felt neither fear nor excitement, nor even curiosity. The day would bring what it brought.

"I'm sorry," said the pastor as they parted on the quayside, "but it's best you don't come back. Best for your family."

"No," said Villam, puzzled. "It's me that needs to be sorry."

The pastor looked at him oddly then and put a hand on his shoulder—the first touch since Kai's. "If you must come back, Villam, come married."

Villam boarded a foreign merchantman and left Sweden forever.

~

The Lady Margaret sailed from Bristol, so her crew were mostly English, Welsh, and Irish with a scatter of foreigners like himself to make up lost numbers. At first, he knew only that his shipmates called him Bill, but already Villam Tornquist had become William Turner.

He was the only Swede on board, but there were two Danes (whom he avoided assiduously because he could understand them), a lonely Greek, two Scots, and a Prussian. By the time he knew this, they'd been joined by two Finns and a Livonian, and they'd traded their way around the Baltic, through the English Channel, the Bay of Biscay, and into the Mediterranean.

Bill worked hard and in silence, but he couldn't help picking up words. Just commands at first, names of ropes and sails, but slowly more human concerns crept in: names of crewmates, their families and loved ones, likes and dislikes, songs, card games... By the time he wanted to speak, English words were ready in his thoughts—strange though they felt on his tongue.

His demons followed him, of course. No change of name, place, or language seemed to shake them. But he remembered Kai's tears and fought back, determined never again to bring harm to the innocent. At sea, he made do with his own hand. On shore, the hand of a stranger paid for with good coin and a bargain struck clear to make sure nobody fell into worse sin than they'd reckoned on.

"Your hand, my prick, how much?" He could say it in a dozen dockside languages. If he said it more often to lads than to lasses, well, a hand was a hand, and lads, being subject to animal passion, less likely to be innocent. For his partners in sin must be already corrupted, and generously compensated for the relief they gave him. Sunk deep in shame as Bill was, he could at least make sure of that.

He banished Kai from his dreams, training himself to wake and pray at first glimpse of the boy. It worked well enough for Mediterranean sailing. Trading ports clustered thick along the coast, well supplied with brazen hussies of all sexes. Bill could almost persuade himself that his offer of a coin for a hand in a dark corner preserved some of them from worse depravities.

However, the run home to Bristol was a trial, and not only for the change from southern sunshine to blustery, northern drizzle. Long days and nights at sea broken only by a small Breton port whose steep grey streets and brooding church reminded Bill of Degerhamn.

The girls wore crisp lace on their heads and ran off giggling if a man smiled at them. A gap-toothed lad hung round the quay fetching, carrying, and generally finding work where there wasn't any. He tugged at Bill's jacket with one hand, holding out the other in hope of a coin. His face lit up when Bill gave him a farthing. When he understood that all he had to do was go to Church and say his prayers, he crowed with laughter and scampered away up the hill. Bill fled to the hold, where he found a measure of relief beating his head and hips against a sack of wool.

He knew not all the crew shared his restraint. With so many men in close proximity, ignorance required either exceptional naïveté or a deliberate effort of will; Bill was acutely, painfully conscious of every night-time groan, every stray glance or lingering hand.

In moments of weakness, he wondered if it would be so terrible to share his shame with a crewmate as deeply sunk as himself. Sometimes, he was approached by men who clearly knew what they were about. Once or twice, he succumbed. But the furtive fumbling that followed left him little better than before. The terrible truth was that his demons craved exactly the beauty and innocence he was resolved to protect.

In desperation, he remembered Pastor Fogge's parting words. Perhaps marriage could sanctify his sinful nature, could grant him a companion without corrupting her purity. By the time the Margaret put into Bristol, he had an image of the girl he wanted. She had grey eyes and creamy skin like Kai's, a supple bearing, and a modest style of dress. He allowed himself to dream of holding her pressed against him, fully clothed. He'd wait to meet and marry her before he let his thoughts slide to what lay under the neat bodice and heavy skirt.

~

The first night ashore, Bill was still on the gangplank when he felt the magnetic pull of sin and spied a gangly lad sprawled across a bale of canvas, knees wide open, grinning like a hound. It was clear he needed no payment, though he was happy enough, afterwards, to take Bill's coin.

The second night, Bill had ship duty, but first thing in the morning he set off for the church on the red cliffs. Some disaster had broken off most of its spire, but even so, it seemed to touch the clouds. Bill tried to believe it would reconnect him to God.

Outside the church, sitting on a low wall, was a girl in a modest grey dress, sobbing her heart out. Never one to pass misery by on the other side, Bill sat down beside her (at a respectful distance) and cleared his throat. The girl looked up, startled. Her skin, though blotched from crying, was soft and creamy, but hers eyes weren't grey at all: they were dark and glossy as sloes. For some reason this made Bill feel safe: she wasn't Kai or the girl he'd dreamed about.

"Is there something I can do for you, Miss?" he asked, really hoping there might be.

She shook her head. "No. Thank you kindly, sir."

"I can't leave you like this."

"An' why not?" A flash of anger. "They all did."

This was true. The street by the church was full of people getting on with their business, respectable and otherwise—mostly otherwise. It occurred to Bill that this wasn't the best place for a young girl alone.

"The pastor will help," he said. "Let's go into church and look for him."

The girl's face crumpled. "If you mean the vicar, I done that." Her control broke completely and she sobbed into her tiny, sodden handkerchief. When this failed to stem the flow, she grabbed the hem of her petticoat and buried her face in it, leaning very far forwards to keep all but her boots covered.

Bill turned away as soon he realised what she was doing. He located his own large, crumpled handkerchief and held it out behind his back. It took a while for her to notice, but, at last, it was lifted from his grasp with a soggy "thankee". Cautiously, he turned to see her hunched over, sobbing furiously into its folds.

"The vicar will help." Bill was quite certain the girl couldn't have done anything wicked. Of course this vicar would comfort her, if she'd only go back and talk to him sensibly.

"He blamed me!" she wailed. "Said I must've done summat to provoke 'im. But I never did! I swear!"

Understanding settled like lead in Bill's gut. "Someone—some man—wanted to... He tried to blame you for what he did. That's it, isn't it?"

She nodded.

Dark eyes or not, she looked just like Kai, and she had the same helpless way of crying. Bill knew he'd been sent a chance to redeem himself. His mouth went dry with fear that he'd get it wrong again, that he'd let her down.

"It ain't your fault!" It came out so fierce she shied away. But then she smiled at him over his handkerchief. He almost took her hand then, but stopped himself and said, "You can't stay here. Would you like me to walk you home?"

"I don' live in Bristol," she told him, "but you can walk me out to the market if you like."

"If you show me the way."

As they walked, he told her about his ship, the ports they'd called at and goods they'd traded. She told him about the master who couldn't keep his hands to himself while she made the beds and baked the bread, and the mistress who threw her out on the street when she spoke of it.

Peggy—for that was her name—was an orphan. She'd been in Bristol only a few weeks and desperately missed home, but money was short and there was work in the city for an honest, hardworking lass, or so she'd been told. But now she was all on her own in this strange, wicked place. Not that she was worried, because she had three big, strong brothers waiting for her at the market.

Bill, being Bill, never questioned this until they reached the market and no brothers appeared.

"'Tis fine," she said bravely, pronouncing it "foyn". "Don' you wait about. They'll be along soon."

"You have no brothers."

"I do an' all! Only two though—littl'uns. An' a baby sister. I jus' thought...

"You thought I'd not take advantage if you said you had three big men ready to punch my lights out."

She nodded.

"If I go, what will you do?"

Her lower lip wobbled dangerously, but she pulled herself together. "I 'xpect someone'll give me a ride Pucklechurch way..."

"Aye," he said, "No doubt there's plenty'd do that. But what then? Can you live in Picklechurch now?"

She giggled at that. "Pucklechurch, silly!" Then, suddenly serious, "Nay, there be no field work in winter. I'd 'ave to come back 'ere. 'Sides, what can I tell 'em? They'll think the same as that vicar." She began to sob again.

"Hush! We'll think of something," promised Bill, wishing it were true. "I'll see you come to no harm."

"Aye." She looked up at him, wide-eyed. "I b'lieve you will."

~

The long and the short of it was that Bill paid for Peggy to lodge the night with Mrs. Willetts, the widow who owned the bakery near the quay. It was a respectable, clean place and Mrs. Willetts promised to keep an eye on the lass herself.

Meanwhile, Bill hurried back to consult his English shipmates. Surely, someone would know where Peggy could come by honest work. They heard him out, open-mouthed and silent, then broke into hoots of laughter.

"You'll not see the lass nor yer money again, Bill me boy," old Japhet explained at last, taking pity on Bill's confusion. "Oldest trick in the book, that!"

Bill looked round for confirmation. Every man jack was sure he's been royally played. He thought long and hard. "Aye," he said at last. "Well, maybe you're right. If so, I had it coming. But I'd sooner be a laughing stock than leave a poor girl wanting. She don't seem like the crafty sort."

There was a lot of laughter, clapping him on the back and asking earnestly after his sweetheart and latest investment, but Bill bore their banter with patience. He'd learn the truth come morning. Either way, it'd be a kind of penance for Kai.

~

For all Bill's defence of Peggy, he was more than half-expecting to find her gone when he called at the bakery. But she was there right enough, helping Mrs. Willetts stack warm loaves into baskets for the boy to deliver.

"That lass o' yourn," confided the baker's wife, "she were up before dawn to help with the dough. Fetched water, tended the fire an' all. She be a good worker, that one, an' welcome to bide as long as she likes. I'll pay tuppence a day an' she can sleep in the cubby behind the flour sacks free o' charge."

Peggy gave him a bright smile. "I thank you for yer kindness, Mr. Turner, an' I shall repay you just as soon as I be able."

"No need," said Bill, fairly glowing with happiness. He noticed Peggy's blush and widow Willetts' chuckle.

"Take care lass—'e be a looker, that'un, when 'e don't mope so solemn! We be nigh on finished 'ere, Pegs. Why don't you take Mr Turner to see summat of Bristol town? Get on, off with ye!" she added, seeing Peggy hesitate. "I know men, and I can see you've naught to fear from this'un."

Peggy dusted the flour from her hands and stepped shyly forward. Bill felt ready to burst with pride.

~

Peggy didn't know much of Bristol, so Bill took her to see his ship instead. The gangly lad was hanging round again, but Bill pretended not to see him (or the way his hand played with the waistband of his trews). He let his own hand brush against Peggy's as they walked past, fiercely delighted when she took hold of it and twined her arm through his like a proper courting couple.

"Oh!" she exclaimed when they came to the Margaret. "We've the same name! You never said." Bill was quite baffled. "Peggy's short for Margaret, silly. Like Bill for William."

"Bill and Peggy," repeated Bill, puzzled but content. English ways with names were clearly beyond comprehension. "William and Margaret." He wanted to add "Turner" but feared it might be presumptuous. In any case, the rain had become so heavy he decided to lend Peggy his leather hat and walk her home before she caught her death.

~

Within the week, the Margaret was ready to put to sea (a quick run round Wales to Liverpool trading cotton, oats, herring and sugar) and Bill had proposed. Peggy'd beamed all over her face, but wouldn't give him her answer until she'd talked to her uncle in Pucklechurch.

"I'll be waitin' on the quay when you get in," she promised, and indeed, twelve days later, there she was, flushed and out of breath from running down from the bakery while the Margaret was warping to her berth.

"Uncle Joe said yes!" she cried, jumping into Bill's arms, then, as an afterthought, "Welcome back!"

"It's good to see you, Mrs. Turner," he replied, catching her up and whirling her round. But then his crewmates seized hold of him and carried him shoulder-high towards the alehouse, leaving Peggy on the quay with calls of, "Ye can 'ave 'im back in the mornin', missy—tonight he's celebratin' with us." He just managed to land a peck on her cheek before he was swept away.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of backslapping and 'ere-you-go-Bill-lad-drink-up-now. He dimly remembered being supported between Matt and Pete as they staggered back to the ship. For some reason, his head kept lolling onto Matt's shoulder and he was saying he needed to piss.

"Don' be daft, Bill! You pissed on that wall not ten yards back."

He remembered pissing on the wall, one arm draped round Matt for support, the other taking unsteady aim. And on another wall in the alley behind the alehouse, except that time Matt was pissing too and they'd somehow ended up face-to-face, holding each other's pricks...

Next morning, Bill splashed water over his aching head and vowed to stay sober once he was married. Then he walked up the hill to the bakery.

~

Bill had wanted to be married at St. Mary's Redcliffe, the church where they'd met, but Peggy'd taken against the vicar, so they settled for Pucklechurch and a date two months hence.

The Margaret pottered in and out of port on short to middling runs. There was talk of another long cruise, but while the coastal trade was good, no-one was in a hurry. Anyway, they'd promised to have Bill home for his wedding.

Mrs. Willetts offered them her garret for a peppercorn rent on condition that Peggy moved back to the cubbyhole if a paying guest presented while Bill was at sea. That way, they could save for Peggy and their future children to have a proper home.

~

So, on a foggy February morning in the church of St Thomas à Beckett, Pucklechurch, Margaret Clover, spinster of that parish and William Turner, able seaman of the parish of Saint Mary le Port, Bristol, were joined together in Holy Matrimony, an honourable estate for the procreation of children and for a remedy against sin.

Church English was unfamiliar to Bill, but he caught those words loud and clear. A remedy against sin: it dispelled his lingering doubts about his identity. Though he was only a common sailor, Peggy swore he'd be an able seaman soon enough, and truly a parishioner of St Mary's too, once he'd lived 40 days at Mrs Willetts'. It didn't count as lying, she said, if it was going to come true in time. Perhaps she was right. Certainly, it was easier than trying to explain about Fårstorp and Villam Tornquist.

~

That night, Bill was surprised to find Peggy knew what to do. He'd been thinking a hand would be enough, at least for the time being and since they couldn't afford a child yet, but she'd stopped after a few strokes.

"C'mon, Mr. Turner. Best do this proper now."

Bill was speechless. Did she mean what he thought she meant? Surely, she couldn't want such a thing? His yard, so hard in her hand, hung limp.

"It's fine," he stammered. "You don't have to. Better to get used to it slow. A bit at a time. I can wait."

"Don' be daft, Bill! Raised on a farm, weren't I? I've seen 'ow it works." With that, she turned away, settled herself squarely on hands and knees, waiting.

"Oh!" said Bill. He couldn't see her face, or anything much except how the moonlight caught on the curves of her shoulders and rump, the bumps of her spine. His flesh stirred back to life. He took himself in hand and moved to kneel behind her.

She gave a sharp little gasp as he pushed into her and he almost pulled out, afraid she was hurt or horrified. But he knew that sound. He'd heard it once, his ear pressed to the planks of a hayloft in Degerhamn one Midsummer's Eve... Had Kai gasped like that for Bengt Persson?

Bill knew it was impossible, but all at once it was Kai's body gleaming in the moonlight, Kai's flesh pressed against his, Kai's bare elbows and knees thrust deep into the hay, Kai gasping and groaning...

"I'm sorry!" He scrambled off her as soon as he'd finished.

"Whatever for? 'Tweren't as bad as all that. Nowhere near so bad as Agnes said." She blotted her privates against the sheet, wincing, but grinned at the result. "We shall have a proper bloodstain to show 'em in the morn."

Bill lay back catching his breath and puzzling over the mysteries of the universe. How could this be blessed by God and Church when what he'd done with Kai—let alone what Kai couldn't possibly have done in the hayloft—was a deadly sin?

~

Later, in Mrs. Willetts' chilly garret, he began to figure it out: it wasn't sinful with Peggy because he and Peggy were joined in the sight of God. But if his thoughts were with Kai, that was still a sin, even though his body was with Peggy. (Sometimes, he thought it must be a lesser one, because only his own soul could be hurt by it. Other times, it seemed greater, because it added adultery to his already long tally of shameful deeds.)

He also learned, to his dismay, that his body knew the difference between sin and not-sin better than his soul: only sin engorged his flesh and fed his animal hunger. Poor Bill was stuck fast in a cleft stick. Peggy expected him to perform. She showed no sign of enjoying what he did (he'd have been astonished if she had), but clearly believed it a necessary part of proper married life.

Caught between the devil (in the shape of sinful imaginings) and the deep, cold sea of marital duty, he fled both for the open ocean and a berth on an East Indiaman bound for Canton. He told Peggy it was for the pay; that when he came back, they'd have a proper home in which to start a family. He half believed it himself.

~

Once his mark was made in the register of the Resolution, Bill was a model husband. He arranged for the advance of his pay to be given weekly to his wife, keeping none for himself. At sea, he composed letters to her whenever a literate shipmate would oblige, and posted them at every opportunity, usually with some little gift or token from their ports of call. Like most of the crew, he learned to conduct his own miniature trade—what to buy and where best to sell it. Unlike most, Bill sent his profits home, or saved them up for his return.

With every week at sea, the sun shone stronger and higher over the yardarm; Bill's store of foreign coin increased; and the griping panic in his guts dwindled back to the dull ache he'd long ago learned to ignore.

When they made port—which wasn't often—the men of the Resolution hit the taverns and whorehouses hard. No-one seemed to mind what kind of whores a man picked out, nor what he did with them, so long as he paid his share of the drink. In the long weeks between ports, Bill refused all comers at first, but hunger won out in the end. To his astonishment, nothing changed (except, of course, that he found a measure of calm). It was never spoken of, unless from the safety of jest, but they were all men together, all sinful, all the same. They understood.

Bill learned that the world was bigger, sunnier, and more beautiful than he'd dreamed. They were a month in Canton, loading the porcelain and silk ordered last year; placing orders with the factories that would make new goods for next year's ship. When they finally weighed anchor, he felt the horizon closing in. By the look of it, a fair few of his crewmates felt the same.

"Cheer up, Bill, mate. Yer not back with the missus yet. Plenty more fun 'fore you have to face that terror."

"Oh, aye!" He nodded and smiled, but his gut clenched with dread. It was easy for them to talk. They'd be sailing again next season. They weren't married, or had Company wives who knew the score. But Bill had pledged to set up home.

The thought of turning north, returning to the chill, grey waters that lapped his other lives began to haunt him. He tossed and turned through nightmares of storms that smashed the Resolution to driftwood, or started in a cold sweat from dreams of casting anchor safe and sound in the Bristol Channel.

~

In the end, the Resolution rounded the Cape without him. Bill always said it was because he met Larry in that inn in Mombassa. It could just as well have been Bob in Bombay, Ben in Bengal, or Dick in Dakar, or any of the lads Bill generally managed not to think about once his hunger was slaked and the ship had sailed. But Larry couldn't be forgotten: Larry was the reason for the change in Bill's life.

It took longer, these days, for drink to numb Bill's mind, and its only effect on Larry was to loosen his tongue. So the pair of them sat a long while, tipping back tumblers of rum and exchanging sailors' tales, before Larry felt the need to sling an arm around Bill's shoulders; and longer still before Bill responded with a hand on Larry's thigh. Time enough to learn that Larry hadn't seen England in eight years and didn't care if he never went back, for Larry sailed what he called "the Round" from West to East Indies and back again, past Madagascar and southern Africa. "The Round" supplied all wants in plenty—so why change?

So Larry was a roundsman. Bill knew there was another word. How could he not, when East Indiamen like the Resolution provided the Pirate Round with the bulk of its prey and plunder? But he'd never before thought how it might feel to sail as long as he liked in warm, foreign waters, never driven home by the close of a cruise; never forced to hang around a grey English dock waiting on back pay or a new berth.

"Tis a grand life," proclaimed Larry. "Ye want to give it a try, Bill. Ye'll make more in a month with us than a year on a Company ship. And be no man's servant, neither." He proceeded to prove his wealth by demanding the best room in the inn, "For me mate, Bill 'ere, an' meself. We wants it all night, mind—no shovin' us out early to make way for the next pair."

Bill, who normally liked to slip discreetly upstairs or outside for no longer than strictly necessary, was mortified yet strangely thrilled. He put the latter down to the heat, and the unusual power of the local rum, and forgot it altogether within the week. But he didn't forget to wake early, run to the Resolution for his few belongings, spinning the lookout a yarn about a bundle of clothes to be laundered, and get back to the Inn while Larry was still snoring. With luck, he'd not be missed until Thursday.

The next afternoon, Bill was sprawled on the sizzling-hot deck of a pirate ship some twenty miles northwest of Madagascar. In the shade of the ship's black sails, he was very slowly dictating a letter. The slowness was partly because he had difficulty finding the words, but mostly because Larry's lettered mate, Tom, needed frequent pauses for thought and consultation of his battered almanac.

To Mrs. Turner at Willetts Bakehouse, near to ye Bell Inne, by Bristol Dock, England.

My derest Wif,

It is with mixed Emotions that I write to acquaint you with a most unexpected Event that may yet prove providential. (At this point, Tom had to abandon the Almanac's model, a letter to inform of a bountiful inheritance.) I left ye Resolution for a better Ship where I can find more Profitt. My new Shipp is bownd for Parts I may not name to you nor will you know of them for they bee very distant. I kno not when I shal return. But do not grieve for I cann get more Pay in one Month here than in a Yere on a Companie Shippe. Whatsoever I may, I shal send to you my Dere for to use as you best think fitting against my eventuall Return and ye true Beginning of our wedded Blyss.

The Shyps Name is (here, there was a large inkblot, produced while Tom explained the need for an alias) ye Whyte Saffyre. You may write to me as William Turner, of ye Whytte Safire, at ye Drunken Monkey, Sainte Marys Isle, Madagassy. Tho I cannot tell if letters will retche me. But take care and send only by merchant Shyppes for the Navy do not visit Sainte Marys Isle.

I remain your dutifull Housebond, William Turner.

Bill was pleased with the letter. Tom and his almanac turned a pretty phrase, and nothing in it was exactly a lie (except the ship's name, but he could see the need for that). He knew Peggy'd be disappointed, but he'd stand by his promise to keep her from want. One day, he'd keep his other promises too, and make everything right. Surely, given enough time, one day he'd be ready to go home.

He never quite abandoned these good intentions, though they were dulled by the glory of freedom and plunder under a tropical sun, and nigh scorched away by the dazzling beauty of the boy who swayed up the Black Pearl's gangplank one afternoon in Zanzibar claiming to be the new navigator—a title he eventually earned.

Other than the bundle of charts under his arm, the clothes he stood up in, and the loveliest eyes Bill had ever seen, the lad owned nothing but his name: Jack Sparrow. It was a name, thought Bill, with wings. For a while, they lifted his soul out of the hell his corruption deserved, and carried him to a shining, sun-drenched heaven.

For a while.

~

The spire of St Mary Redcliffe in Bristol was struck by lightning in the 15th century. It wasn't rebuilt until the 19th, so Bill and Peggy saw something like this:

St. Mary's Redcliffe, Bristol, Dawn by John Cotman