Tortuga's marketplace was loud, messy, and smelled faintly of rum, gunpowder, and someone's questionable stew. Edward marched forward with heroic enthusiasm, while Mira trudged behind with the look of a woman who had already begun regretting sobriety.
The seagull rode on Edward's shoulder, chest puffed out like it owned the entire island.
"Squeak."
"Yes," Edward replied solemnly, "today, we build a proper crew."
Mira snorted. "Proper? Here? Good luck with that."
They found their first supposed helmsman perched on a rum barrel near the docks—a weather-beaten man with a beard tied in beads and a glass that was eighty percent rum, twenty percent glass.
Edward approached with polite confidence."Excuse me, sir. Are you a helmsman?"
The man took a long drink as if considering."I was till I lost my sense o' direction."
Edward blinked. "Oh. You mean metaphorically?"
"No," the man replied flatly. "Literally."
He pointed vaguely toward the sea."Spent three weeks trying to sail north. Ended up in Cuba."
"…That is north," Edward said carefully.
"From where?"
Edward opened his mouth. Closed it. "…I don't know anymore."
Mira grabbed his sleeve. "Absolutely not. He'll sail us into a volcano."
"SQUEEK."
"I agree," Edward sighed. "Next."
A little farther down the docks, they found a young man spinning a ship wheel set in the sand, shouting dramatic commands to no one.
"WIND AT STARBOARD! FULL TURN TO PORT! AAAAAND—CRASH!"
He tipped over backwards.
Edward politely applauded. "Impressive commitment."
The young man leapt up and saluted."Barnaby Quill, best helmsman this side of the Caribbean!"
Mira raised a slow eyebrow. "Have you ever actually sailed?"
"…Not outside my imagination," he admitted.
Edward brightened. "You know what? I like him."
"Edward," Mira said flatly, "no. He would crash a ship in a bathtub."
"SQUEEK."
"Exactly," Edward agreed.
Barnaby hopped up eagerly."I learn fast! I can steer while standing on one leg!"
He tried it. Fell again.
"We'll… consider you," Edward managed.
"Run," Mira hissed, dragging him away.
Cooks of Questionable Morality
The kitchens of Tortuga were otherworldly.
The first cook swung a ladle like a cutlass."I only cook poisoned food—for enemies!"
Edward tried diplomacy."Do you… serve anything not lethal?"
"No."
"Next."
A giant man stirred a pot that hissed ominously.
Edward leaned over. "What's the ingredient?"
The giant shrugged. "Everything I found on the floor."
Mira clamped a hand over Edward's mouth before he could breathe in the fumes and hauled him away.
Finally, at a quiet little stall, a thin, middle-aged man chopped vegetables with neat precision.
Edward approached very cautiously. "Hello. Are you a cook?"
"Yes," the man said pleasantly. "Thirty years of experience. No poison. No floor food. I wash my hands."
Mira whispered, "This feels like a trap."
The man smiled warmly."I like quiet. I like cooking. I dislike explosions. You seem energetic—yet not homicidal. Acceptable."
Edward lit up. "Sir, you are hired!"
The seagull immediately swooped down, stole a carrot, and flapped off.
The cook sighed. "Does the bird do that often?"
"Constantly," Mira said.
"Yes," Edward confirmed.
The man resigned himself. "Fine. I'm Crispin. When do we sail?"
Edward hesitated."…As soon as we find a ship. And a helmsman. And… a surgeon."
Crispin closed his eyes slowly."…This will be a journey."
They searched the alley where most of Tortuga's so-called medical professionals gathered—some sharpening knives, some sewing themselves to their coats, and several drinking substances that definitely weren't meant for human consumption.
Edward approached a man with a saw, a bottle of rum, and a sign that read: SURJIN. I DO LIMBS.
"No," Mira said, pulling him away before the man could demonstrate.
The next candidate was using a chicken as a stethoscope.
"Absolutely not."
The next surgeon was unconscious.
"Next."
Finally, they came upon a woman calmly reading a real anatomy book while sitting on a crate.
Edward cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Are you a surgeon?"
She looked up, eyes sharp enough to cut glass."Yes. Trained in London. Left after my mentor insisted I stop practicing on the aristocracy."
Edward frowned. "Why were you practicing on the aristocracy?"
"They were available and terribly insufferable."
Mira leaned toward Edward. "I like her."
"You're hired," Edward declared.
Dr. Finch closed her book."Good. I assume you have a proper ship, disciplined crew, and sanitation standards?"
Edward looked deeply uncomfortable.
Mira patted his shoulder. "Oh, sweetheart… no."
"SQUEEK."
"…This will be the death of me," the doctor muttered.
By sunset, they stood together watching the sky turn red.
Crispin the Cook.Dr. Finch, the Surgeon.Mira the Navigator.Edward the Captain.And the tyrannical, carrot-stealing seagull.
Mira crossed her arms. "We still need a helmsman."
Edward grinned confidently. "We'll find one. Then a ship. Then, my friends will never see us coming."
The seagull squeaked triumphantly.
And together, they headed back into Tortuga—ready to gather the rest of their chaotic, possibly cursed, and only slightly functional pirate crew.