Chapter 98: Civilization, More or Less
Dawn on the fifteenth day.
It came with smoke rising from cookfires and some axe biting into wood somewhere beyond the storehouse, before even the birds had begun their complaints. James hadn’t expected to be standing over a construction chart again this soon.
Then again, very little about the last week had gone the way he’d expected.
Getting out of the swamp had exhausted them in a way Mary spent the entire march cursing the water in language that would’ve made a veteran sailor laugh and blush at the same time.
They reached the coast near dusk and followed the shore eastward, stumbling into camp long after the fires had burned down to embers.
Somewhere in that time Mary solved her problem with ease. She tore a strip from her shirt-tail and tied her hair down, then spread out mud through her face and limbs. Nobody spared a second glance for Mark Read returning as though he’d been dragged the length of the island.
She broke away toward the camps before anyone could get a look at her, leaving James to face the crew alone with a gold mask in his coat and a story nobody was going to believe.
They didn’t believe a word of it.
They loved hearing it regardless.
Men crowded around the fire before he’d finished a third of the tale. The mask passed from hand to hand until an old sailor missing most of his teeth snatched it back, squinted at it, then drove what teeth remained straight into the serpent’s brow.
"Real."
He handed it back with a fresh dent in the gold.
"Real as me own mother’s teeth, and she’s got fewer left than this thing does now."
By morning everyone in camp was fighting over the story.
Mackerel Jim was flat on his back beside the fire with Greasy Pete’s knuckles still ringing off his jaw, both men shouting about who deserved the first trip into the ruins.
Jim claimed a serpent had personally led him to treasure on three different continents. Pete claimed he was simply the better man, and he’d begun proving it with his fists.
Cudjoe hauled Jim upright by the collar before he could throw another punch.
Briggs merely stepped in front of Pete and stood there.
The fight was stopped just like that.
"Right then."
James clapped his hands and grinned at the pair of idiots nursing their own foolishness. "Since neither of ye can count past ten without help, here’s how it’ll work. Every man gets a turn in that hole, we draw slots for it. Nobody goes twice until everyone’s gone once, and if you don’t like where ye stand in line, take it up with me."
Whitlock took charge of the matter before anyone even offered him the task. Already he was weighing every man’s place in the order against whatever treasure the ruins would eventually give to them.
"Shares by labor and rank, naturally."
His quill scratched steadily across the paper. "Though gold dragged from a swamp carries considerably more risk per share than gold taken from a Spaniard, and I intend for the accounts to recognize the distinction."
The week that followed divided itself into two kinds of labor, building and digging. Both found new ways to put men flat on their backs.
Hobbs, who had spent the entire time complaining that nobody in camp had the decency to get properly injured, took to the work with alarming enthusiasm.
"Keep it coming." He wrapped some broken rib without missing a beat. "I was starting to think the lot of ye had forgotten what I’m for."
Which was how James found himself standing over Grey’s old chart again on a morning that had, at the very least, begun without anyone bleeding.
The tavern stood finished now, its thatch dark after the first rain, already doing steady business if the noise spilling from inside was any indication.
Half a dozen houses stood roofed and occupied through the new street, with another half dozen still rising beside them. The cradle had the Rose secure, the cistern was clear and the storehouse hadn’t leaked once. Near the bay, the pier finally stretched all the way into deep water instead of ending in a half-finished promise.
Beyond all of it stood the brothel, walls finished, roof shingled, door hanging straight and true.
Nobody had walked through it since the last nail went in.
"Would ye look at that."
James grinned at the building. "Built the finest whorehouse in the Caribbean, and not one soul in it to earn her keep."
Sawyer didn’t look up from the chart. "Shame the lads were thinkin’ with their cocks instead of their heads. There isn’t a single lass for the job in the island."
"Fair point."
The space in front of the table thickened before either man spoke again.
🏴 [AVAILABLE CONSTRUCTION — THE BAY]
Sawpit
Purpose : A long pit where two sawyers split whole logs into planks, beams, and boards for building
Materials : Hardwood, Cordage
Labor : 8-10 Hands
Construction Time : 4-5 Days
Overseer : Sawyer Required
Stoneworks
Purpose : A mason’s yard where rough stone is cut, dressed, and fitted
Materials : Stone, Timber
Labor : 6-8 Hands
Construction Time : 1 Week
Overseer : Capable Hand Required
Cookhouse
Purpose : Communal hearth with ovens, cauldrons, and worktables
Materials : Stone, Timber
Labor : 8-10 Hands
Construction Time : 4-5 Days
Overseer : Any Capable Hand
Distillery
Purpose : Stillhouse where fermented grain or cane is boiled into high-proof spirits for drinking, trade, and medicine
Materials : Copper, Timber
Labor : 4-6 Hands
Construction Time : 1 Week
Overseer : Doyle (Volunteer)
I would also note that legitimizing Doyle’s distillery does not make its product any safer.
James read the options without saying a word.
For the first time since Sawyer had started shoving charts under his nose, he resisted every urge to point at things he didn’t understand.
He kept both hands to himself. "Sawpit and cookhouse first. We’ve only got thirty-odd hands free while the rest are still down that hole, so it’s those two or nothin’ if we want anything built quickly. Where any of it goes is your business, not mine. I’ve finally accepted there’s no sense tellin’ a carpenter where to swing his hammer."
Sawyer didn’t answer straight away. He looked from the chart to James, then back again, his brow slowly climbing as though he’d caught the captain cheating at cards and simply hadn’t worked out how.
"How, ye looked at that for less than a minute."
He muttered. "Picked the right jobs, left the placement to me, and didn’t once try tell me where to put a bloody buildin’."
James did his best to look modest.
"I’ve been learnin’."
"So either I’ve finally managed to educate ye..."
Sawyer folded his arms, still studying him with open suspicion.
"...or the Lord Himself has taken an unhealthy interest in pirate town planning."
James scratched the back of his neck and offered an innocent smile.
"I’ll not argue with divine intervention if it’s workin’."
Sawyer snorted and pointed at the chart, "Sawpit goes near the hardwood, saves the trouble to carry the logs."
His finger shifted toward the higher ground. "Stoneworks sits beneath that stone shelf where ye like standin’ and admirin’ things, since that’s near enough the only proper stone this bay seems willing to provide."
He tapped another place closer to the tideline. "Cookhouse goes between the storehouse and the tavern so nobody’s carryin’ food any farther than they’re already carryin’ drink. And Doyle’s thing goes wherever the wind can carry the smell furthest from everything else we’ve built, in case it ever decides to stop bein’ rum and start bein’ some damned poison."
James left him to it.
He looked over the settlement one more time. The busy tavern. The half-finished street. The empty brothel waiting for better days. The pier finally reaching deep water.
Somewhere behind him an axe bit into wood again, steady and familiar, and the camp kept building itself into something that might, before too much longer, actually deserve a name.