In which the Boy makes his escape

Three years past, a lad sailed a' my ship, a skirtling boy of no more than 8 summers. At Pascagoula, as the last water barrel rolled up, the bosun and myself caught sight of him clambering up the stern line and aboard. He slipped the sailcloth cover and disappeared into the jolly boat. A shout cracked over the dockside noise. "Where is my boy?"

The calls and bustle of loading and unloading creaked to a halt under the command in her clarion voice. She stood at the center of the dock, towering, imperious and enraged, daring any to jostle her as she scanned the crowd. Her scarlet overcoat and hat marked her out-of-place. The gang around her marked her dangerous and powerful.

Her stone-flat eyes silenced all resistance while her men tossed through chests, barrels and crates large enough for a small boy. More than once the glint of a blade caught my eye.

This was no mother searching for a son. That boy was livestock for punishment. Or death. I’d have none of that. I hissed to the bosun, "Harrison, make fast. Pull the lines. We leave now."

The best man I ever shipped with, Harrison belayed the orders as I said them. His eyes never left the tempest whirling about the scarlet woman. "Cap'n, she'll follow if we make out suspicious. We'll need to be second leaving or after. Her eyes will never forget the first which runs and she looks the kind to ride the winds of Hell itself."
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The Skirtling Boy will be posted on Mondays and Thursdays for the next two weeks.