It’s not often you get fancy dress nights at my local. That’s
what I thought when I saw the two newcomers. Granted, the pub was virtually
empty since they weren’t serving food while the kitchens were being redone.
I was sat at the corner table, pint in my hand when the doors
swung open and two men from a previous century strode in. The first man was no
taller than 5’6”, but with an athletic build. With a rakish grin shining behind
his Van Dyke style moustaches and goatee, and the rapier swinging between his
legs like a monkey’s tail, he seemed to fill more space than he actually took up.
That’s no small feat, considering his companion. The second man was a large black
man, almost 7’ tall and with a muscular build. His face bore a grave
expression, beneath the three parallel scars which ran from above his right ear
to his left cheek. Hanging from his belt were two cutlasses and a brace of old
flintlock pistols.
“This place looks pretty dead, Scar.” The first man looked
around. I almost chocked on my pint when he mentioned the name.
“As long as there’s some food and ale, I don’t care.”
I took a deep breath. “Sorry mate, kitchen’s closed.”
They both stared at me. “Mr Scar, is it? Then I take it that
your friend is Mr Kestrel.”
I saw the other man’s grin become wider. “Hear that, Scar?
Our reputation precedes us. Seafaring men have taken our exploits as far as…where
are we exactly?”
“You’re in Stoke. And there aren’t many seafaring men around
here. We’re too far inland for that. How’d you get here from the Caribbean?”
They gave each other a quizzical look. “You seem to know a
lot about us for a respectable man.” Scar leaned over me. “Who are you?”
“I’m a writer.” I stammered.
“Then who are we?”
“I guess, the characters.” I stood up. “This is surreal, and
kind of terrifying. I’m going to get another drink. I’ll buy a round if you
want.”
Their expressions immediately softened at the promise of
free booze.
Laughter filled the room while empty glasses filled the
table.
“I remember the incident with the Andalusian in Havana!”
Scar punched Kestrel’s arm with enough force to knock him off his chair. “That
mare got the better of Kestrel. You need to write about that one.”
“It’s in the works.” I raised my glass in a toast. “As is your
smuggling run in Charlestown.”
“Anything of ours made it to print?” Kestrel struggled back
up.
“Not yet. Your adventure with Rosanna Barclay’s is being
beta-read by a friend. But you have to sell your soul to have a steady income.
I ain’t cut out for this full-time work malarkey.”
“I know the feeling.” Kestrel slurred, “That’s why I became
a gentleman of fortune.”
The sound of the bell at the bar signalled our revelry had
to end. Outside, I watched them stagger off into the night.
“I wish you good fortune, Mr Roberts.” Kestrel waved, “Here’s
to hoping you can share our many adventures.”
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