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Nassau, 1706
“What’s a navy man doing here?”
The sneer in the young man’s voice matched the disdain reflected in his eyes, and Flint squinted up at the newcomer. Well, not exactly a newcomer per se, he had seen that particular angry kid around on their first day in Nassau. Gates cleared his throat.
“Don’t know what you mean, son.”
A pair of icy-blue eyes squinted at him, clearly not taken with the endearment.
“I ain’t your son, old man,” he growled, and Flint raised one unimpressed eyebrow, already on edge. “I’ve killed enough redcoats to know the way they prance around like they own the place. Like they think they’re somehow better than the rest of us.”
“Well,” Gates said levelly, putting on a polite smile. “That’s a good thing there are none among us, eh?”
Flint had to admit he was somewhat impressed by his quartermaster’s patience with obnoxious, self-assured pricks. It was what had won him his fresh captaincy, after all. James himself was quicker to silence any dissent with his fists, and his short fuse usually didn’t work in his favor. How Gates had managed to convince half of their men to vote for him was still beyond him, but there they were - captain Flint and his quartermaster, looking for more hands to join their ragtag crew on the Walrus.
The rude man in front of them looked fit enough for a suitable candidate, but that attitude was unacceptable and Flint was quite eager to bash it out of him right there and then. It could prove quite relaxing, he thought, even if the squinty bastard didn’t join them in the end. Flint didn’t need disloyal men anyway, and a good fight would probably help in establishing his image as the fierce pirate captain.
The young man lit up his cheroot nonchalantly, not bothering to direct the smoke away from their faces, which Flint would gladly punish by means of a solid punch to the nose. The intruder continued to stare at them menacingly, a mix of suspicion and contempt visible to anyone who deemed it worthy to pay him any attention, and the sheer audacity of him boiled Flint’s blood.
“Captain.” Another man slithered closer, his swanky attire standing in sharp contrast with the kid’s more roguish appearance. “I believe a proper introduction is in order.” He threw in a smile for good measure, which was answered by Gates’ shark-like grin.
“What’re you doing here, Jack?” Flint’s quartermaster asked back, and the poncy idiot threw his arm to the side, clearly pointing towards the young, scowly bloke.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought it was… obvious…” Jack hesitated, taking in first Gates, then Flint. He seemed to rethink something, before he went on. “Captain Charles Vane, of the Ranger,” he announced with an undeniable measure of pride in his voice.
Flint glared.
If this disheveled boy was a captain, then Flint could as well declare himself the King of the Bahamas. He supposed Nassau held an incredibly low standard as far as leadership was concerned, but this was stretching it more thinly than the last ration of rum in the doldrums.
Flint’s thoughts manifested themselves in the form of a haughty scoff, which earned him a threatening glare from the young ‘captain’. He opened his mouth to put the kid in his place, but Gates interrupted him, leaning forward and glancing between him and the peacock of a pirate.
“My sincerest congratulations!” His quartermaster said in a tone that suggested anything but sincerity, and Flint huffed an amused little laugh, only to earn himself an elbow to the side. “Captain Flint, of the Walrus,” Gates gestured towards him, as if presenting an exhibit of some sorts, which prompted the eccentric loon to bow theatrically.
“Jack Rackham,” he replied, smiling widely, and somehow his expression seemed almost genuine. Almost.
Flint knew better and it was precisely why he pointedly ignored the hand outstretched towards him. Another puff of smoke filled the air around them, and James’ attention returned to the long-haired menace standing before him
“One might wonder what a man like you is doing in Nassau?” Vane asked, his tone more accusatory than curious. Flint snarled, ready to pounce, but there was a not-so-subtle kick delivered to his ankle, and he whipped his head around to glare at his quartermaster. Gates scowled at him, then turned to Vane.
“Oh, we’re just here for a few more nights… Recruiting.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” the youngster spat. “I don’t want any of his type prowling around.” The comment was directed at Flint, followed by another obnoxious puff of smoke, and something inside James snapped. He stood up and leaned over the table, all the anger brewing inside of him reflected in his eyes.
“And what type would that be?” He said through gritted teeth, feeling his entire body tense up. At that point he didn’t really care about the answer - he just needed an excuse.
“What captain Vane meant to say was,” Jack was quick to insert himself between the two once more, even going as far as to extend his hands to keep them apart, “that we don’t want any trouble in Nassau.”
“I think we can all agree on that,” Gates added, side-eyeing Flint. “Right, captain?”
Flint’s glare never left Vane, but he didn’t disagree outright. As much as he wanted to knock that arrogant prick’s teeth out, he was keenly aware of his yet unestablished position on this godforsaken island. Jack must have taken his silence for a good sign, because he took over.
“Right!” He jumped up, clapping his hands. “Let us all then depart in peace, or… well, we’ll depart, seeing as you’re all seated comfortably…” He searched for a reaction, but when Flint remained as he was, he finally gave up and turned his attention to Vane. Leaning in, he whispered something to his captain, then acquired a pleading look that reminded Flint of a stray dog looking for a new owner. As pathetic as it was, it was surprisingly effective, for Vane gave a light shrug before walking away without another word, leaving a trail of thick smoke in his wake.
One day Flint was going to shove that cheroot down his throat, but for now, he contented himself with watching Jack prance away after his captain. He then looked pointedly at Gates, who shook his head resignedly, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.
“I take it you’ve met Charles,” a blonde girl strolled over, more confident and proud than someone her age had any right to be. “A real charmer, isn’t he?”
“Miss Guthrie!” Gates greeted, sending her a shiny smile. “Have you met Captain Flint?”
“Flint?” She asked, raising one eyebrow. “A pleasure.”
“Likewise,” James replied absentmindedly, still reeling from his encounter with the boorish young man.
It was clear that his newfound home hosted a plethora of interesting characters, and Flint realized that he would have to deal with all of them, which led him to order another bottle of rum.
It turned out not to be the last one that evening.