Captain Blackheart’s treasure

What would happen if Noel and Julian lived in mid 18th century England.

Or what do you get when you tastelessly mix The Boosh, Brokeback mountain and anything by Robert Louis Stevenson…? A twisted Pirates tale.
Beta by the wonderful plainJane.

Oh, and GIVE ME FEEDBACK, PLEASE!

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Chapter 2 – Hook, line and sinker…

Chapter 2 – Hook, line and sinker…

Author’s Notes: The men couldn’t get enough of Noel and he was a source for much needed entertainment in the long journey.


But Julian sensed there was something sinister lurking underneath the surface…

“BARRRRATT!”

The cook hated to admit it, but Captain Mann was right to be angry, his dinner WAS taking far too long.

“Come on, Fieldin’, keep up!” The taller man called back over his shoulder as he made his way through the ship’s narrow passageways.

“I’m sorry, Julian sir” cried the young man trying not to spill anything and keep close behind.

It was the end of Noel’s first month as cabin boy/ help to the cook and he wasn’t doing too well. He found difficulty in everything he did, from opening crates, to chopping vegetables, to mopping floors. ANYTHING and everything was a struggle and the cook had to cover up for him more times than he’d care admit to himself. But Julian was convinced he made the right decision in begging the captain to give him a chance, even if it did mean he had to work twice as hard. The boy was trying his best, didn’t dare complain and seemed hell bent on not disappointing him. It was almost endearing, in a sad sort of way.

The two men reached the dining room half an hour late and looking out of breath.

“Sorry, captain, whole thing’s my fault, dropped the roast and had to make a casserole instead”.

The young man looked at Julian with an expression of gratitude that annoyed the cook in its obviousness.

“Let this be the last time, Barratt. I’ve grown tired of your incompetence.”

“Ye be right, Captain, my apologies”.

After years of unrewarding and ungrateful service as head of a merchant ship, the 43 years old Captain Mann recently decided to redirect his business, slowly and secretly, into piracy.

Jack Mann was a tough but mostly fair commander who managed to gain, through hard work and some amount of viciousness, the respect, awe and fear of his men, so much so that nearly all of them blindly followed his transition into the sweet trade. He was a broad shouldered and big boned man—though by no means fat, a hardened mariner with a fixed stern look and an almost medical difficulty to smile.

He also held a violent dislike of Julian Barratt.

A kind of hatred we reserve only for people whom we know are less accomplished, were given far less in life, won’t amount to anything, and yet are better than us in every… single… way…

Though a shy and not very talkative person, the 30 year old cook was instantly likeable and trustworthy. He was clever and kind and held a quiet authority that could have made him a natural leader, in different circumstances… and he was also striking.

Behind the disheveled mess of grease and hair was a tall, svelte and handsome man, the kind that could make women swoon, if he only had the means or will… The greatest insult being, the fool didn’t even know all this about himself! It’s as if, by some cruel trick of fate, Barratt was handed all that Mann wished for, yet was kept completely oblivious to the mix up.

As Irony would have it, those thoughts could have been the greatest compliments Julian had ever recieved in his miserable life… had they not been fueling a slow-simmering sadistic obsession.

The cook quickly started serving the casserole and Noel went round the table dealing bread and drinks to all the officers.

“Tank you very much, me lad”, said Master Meritt with a smile and a sing-song voice as the boy filled his cup with rum.

The quartermaster was easily the oldest and ugliest person in the room. The way he was built as well as his facial features reminded Noel of a sack of potatoes, and between himself he referred to him as “the spud”.

He was a religious nag that kept telling biblical tales and quoting the New Testament on the most inappropriate occasions, and what he lacked in charms he made up in a mixed stench of alcohol and dried sweat…

But he was harmless and though Noel still resented him for his part in his abduction, he had to admit, the man was very kind to him ever since he came on board.

He smiled back coyly and continued to serve the rest of the staff of command.


The men were famished so it didn’t take them long to trough the food and down their drinks, and soon the cook and his assistant were making their way back to the galley.

“Thank you”.

Julian kept walking down the passageway without looking at the younger man.

“Aye… Ye can thank me by stop bein’ such a sprog.”

The silence was quickly interrupted by Noel’s singing.

“Oh… Sproggy sprog
Quick fetch me my grog
Else you’ll get the flog
And be fed to the dog!”
Julian halted.

“Wow, Fieldin’, that HAS to be yer worst one yet!”

“What?! I though it was really good, for a top of my head sort of thing!”

“Ye sure ye not be missin’ a line about Dutch footwear?”

“You’re just jealous of my gift!”

“Which is that, the gift of constant annoyance?

… the secret talent of givin’ me a rash?”

“Inspired rhyming, they call me ‘the pirate bard’!”

“Whatever. Just don’t repeat it to the crew, alright? Unless ye really DO want to be fed to the dog…”

“I want to be fed to a frog, can you arrange that for me?”

“I’ll talk to the captain, see what I can do”.

Noel gave the cook a quick wink, “Aw, thanks. I’ll go clean up now!” and was off.

Julian looked at him as he resumed his walki… well, skipping, and disappeared around the bend…

And there it was again, that stupid smile. It had quietly crept in, found residency on the cook’s face and refused to leave ever since that Fielding boy came aboard.

The hours they spent in the galley together, talking and singing and cooking, seemed to zoom by and it was during those times that Julian found himself to be the most relaxed.

The cook never had a friend that he really was comfortable and could lighten up with, and it just felt so natural and simple and nice…


The weeks came and went and Noel showed some, though marginal, improvement. But the truth was, it seemed the only skills the boy truly and completely mastered in his short life, were his social ones. He was extraordinary.

At ease with himself and anyone around him, he was naturally funny and irresistibly charming. The crew spent hours crowded around him on deck while he imitated the staff of command, capturing their voices and manners with an amazing accuracy.

He would sing and dance and play out his very own sea shanties that he would make up at a drop of a hat. The men couldn’t get enough of him and he was a source for much needed entertainment in the long journey.

But the cook sensed there was something sinister lurking underneath the surface.

Noel was very good looking: Smooth marble skin outstanding against a dark, long hair, which, in its turn, emphasized a set of bright blue eyes and cupid red lips. All features adding up to create a spectacular face, made complete by a strong bone structure, a delicate neck and a small, slender body—he was an exceptionally beautiful man…

In fact, he looked like a woman.

This truth hadn’t escaped Julian and it hadn’t, he was sure of it, escaped the rest of the crew.

The long journey was starting to take its toll on the men, making them dispirited, restless and agitated.

Their last stop, all those months ago, was cut short when they had to double up on provisions and leave port as soon as possible—before anyone would think of checking the ship for young master Fielding. Since then, they haven’t had a proper night out and found no outlet for their pent up tension.

The cook saw them. Watching the boy, exchanging looks and whispering around him, Accidentally bumping into him in corridors, losing their footing and grabbing for hold, mistakenly kicking his bucket and watching him as he got back on all fours to clean up again, unintentionally pouring water on him, apologizing in embarrassment while the shirt clung to his frame.

Julian saw it all and it made him very nervous and even more protective of Noel.

He couldn’t let anything happen to him, the boy was his responsibility, he was in his care, he was… he was like a younger brother to him, the family he never had!

He knew he had to act and do it fast.

Noel, on his part, was enjoying the attention and his obvious popularity and was somewhat annoyed with the cook’s constant criticizing of his skills, when all the rest of the crew seemed as clumsy as he was…


As much as Julian was acutely aware of everything going on with Noel, he was completely oblivious to anything regarding himself.

He approached the Captain with great urgency asking him to move the boy out of the cramped crew quarters and into the cabin next to the galley.

“What’s the matter, Barratt? Have you got nightmares?

Looking for someone to hold your hand?”

Julian ignored the captain’s snigger.

“It makes no sense, sir, for me to disturb all the sleepin’ men every mornin’ while I try to wake him up.”

“So the boy is giving you troubles then?”

“What? No, no troubles at all. But goin’ into the room, makin’ noises so early… I think it’s upsettin’ the men. They’re restless as it is.”

Captain Mann looked somewhat incredulous.

“I also think,” Julian continued before the Captain’s look turned into a refusal “that it would be better if breakfast was already cooked by the time everybody got up. This way I could get up early and we could fix it quick smart…”

The fact that Mann had to consent to the cook’s wishes AGAIN was making him nauseous, but the men HAVE been edgy and the thought of not waiting for his food in the morning seemed very tempting indeed. He had no real reason to turn down Barratt’s proposal and the sour and bitter taste spread in his mouth as he gave his answer.

“Fine.

But if breakfast isn’t ready on time tomorrow he’s going back and you’ll get the Flog”.

The cook always felt that though Captain Mann was outwardly tough and seemingly impatient with him, in his heart, he actually bore respect and fondness of Julian.


An exhausted cook loomed over the heaving mass of blankets waving a frying pan and looking insane.

The younger man beneath the covers made no attempt at moving.

Julian came close to where the head should be and started loudly.

“What shall I do with a lazy Fieldin’
What shall I do with a lazy Fieldin’
What shall I do with a lazy Fieldin’
Early in the mornin’?”
This produced no effect from the pile.

“Hit him on the head with a burnin’ skillet
Hit him on the head with a burnin’ skillet
Hit him on the head with a burnin’ skillet
Does he think I’m jokin’?!”
Suddenly a hoarse voice came from underneath the woolen cover.

“What shall you do with master fielding?
First of all just stop the singing!
And Let him sleep until October
‘bout then he’ll be sober!”
The cook seemed utterly unimpressed.

“Don’t think he’ll survive till fall… what with bein’ murdered and all. Now GET UP!”

The blanket stirred and let out a woeful moan, then went still.

“Perhaps another nice bath in the old fish barrel would help?”

Covers flew aside as a groggy-looking Noel instantly emerged.

“I’m up, I’m up!”

He looked at the tall man, who lowered the frying pan and smiled contently.

“It was 3 weeks ago” the boy sighed “and I can STILL find scales in my hair. I’m like a scaly man-fish…

Ugh, why do we have to get up so early EVERY morning?”

“We just do, hurry up.”


The cook and his assistant were sitting in the kitchen peeling and chopping.

Due to the long unexpected voyage, tensions were running high and provisions dangerously low. Especially after the desperately needed stop in Madagascar was called off after “the Prince Vince” narrowly escaped being spotted by another, bigger pirate ship.

Fresh fruits were all gone and the only vegetables remaining were a few potatoes, some carrots and cabbages, lots and lots of cabbages. Julian had to become extremely creative with his cooking and it left him very frustrated: There’s only so much you can do! There was carrots and fish casserole, cabbage and fish soup, cabbage and carrot pastry, mashed potatoes and cabbages, and his now famed, or rather infamous, “cabbage surprise”, which basically meant you got a steamed cabbage again and surprised yourself with not storming the kitchen and killing the cook.

They were rough times and the ship sailed into a lot of difficulties, but the galley was a cheerful place still. Even if it DID mean the cook had to spend most of his days listening to Noel trying to find all the words that rhyme with scurvy.

The boy was fidgeting in his chair, intentionally demonstrating his discomfort all morning.

“God, will this chopping ever end?”

“I reckon there’s another storm tonight, best be prepared.”

“God, will these storms ever end?”

“Not until we pass Sri Lanka, I s’pose. Now, quit yer whinin’ and get on with it!”

Noel yawned loudly. “I’m just so tired… and I’m in desperate need of a hair of the dog.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“What is THAT suppose to mean?”

“If ye KNOW ye be gettin’ up early, why do ye drink yerself to death the night before?”

“Oh, it’s not like today’s any different, we have to get up early EVERY scurvy morning!”

“Yeah, but do ye have to get drunk EVERY single night?”

“Here we go again…”

“Well, I be the one tryin’ to wake ye up in the mornin’!”

“Why are you such a killjoy? What’s wrong with having a bit of fun with yer mateys?”

The cook cringed, he hated when the boy tried to speak pirate.

“Aye, with ye singin’ and dancin’ for them as’if ye were a monkey…”

“And what’s wrong with THAT? Just because you don’t have any friends…”

“They’re bad people and they are NOT yer friends.”

“Oh, stop it! I know you want to join us.

I see you standing there every night, looking at us…”

“It’s not like that.”

“Whatever. If you ever decide to stop being a tired old nag, let me know.

You know how to find me, yeah? I’ll be the one at the center of attention, having all the fun”.

“Fine!”

“FINE!”

For the next half hour, both men sat in silence, grumpily peeling the carrots and dicing the cabbage.

The boy seemed to get more and more annoyed with the job in hand.

“Argh! Someone scurvied with me knife, it’s gone all dull!”

“Fieldin’, I swear if ye use scurvy as a verb one more time, I’m gonna come at ye…”

“You and what army?”

“Army? Ye don’t need an army to snap a twig”.

“Uh!” Noel wanted to take offense but couldn’t suppress the smirk.

“You may think you’re funny, Barratt, but you’re not.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. They call you ‘Barren Barratt’—cause you’re as funny as the desert.”

“It’s ‘Barrel Barratt’, Sproggy, as in ‘of laughs’.”

“I was told differently.”

“Really, by who?”

“Tony.”

“Tony?”

“Yeh.”

“He’s a mute!”

“He’s not… he’s just pretending around you, cause you’re so bloody boring.”

“For the past seven years he kept this up?”

“Well, you HAVE been consistently unfunny…”

“YOU keep this up, Fieldin’, and I be tellin’ the captain I was wrong all along and we should sell ye.”

The cook took an examining look at Noel, sizing him up.

“I reckon we can fetch a goat for ye.”

“As if! I’m worth my weight in gold!”

“Ye’re worth your weight in cabbage.”

The boy snorted in surprise and Julian took that as a sign of his own victory.

The cook enjoyed these banters with his assistant and rarely were they offended by each other’s words. Julian saw himself as a funny man, but no one ever seemed to really understand his humour, at least not without thinking him a bit weird. Noel didn’t seem to mind and, in fact, was often weirder.


The tempest was raging, rocking the ship violently and tossing the young man and the content of the room from one side to the other. Noel had never been too partial to storms, but this one was on a different scale altogether.

It felt like the boat was in real danger of overturning and the constant swaying was accompanied by the terrifying sounds of wind howling, rain pounding, waves crashing and wood breaking.

The cook sent his assistant to bring him some firewood from the storage room (that cabin where Noel was kept in after his abduction) a good half an hour ago, when the sea was relatively calm. But now, all that the boy could bring himself to do was stand and hug the poll in the middle of the room and pray. He was hanging on for dear life, closing his eyes and pursing his lips tightly.

If it was possible for a stomach to turn itself to death this is how it would feel like.

“Seasick?”

The quartermaster entered the room looking as calm as ever. Noel squinted up then quickly closed his eyes again and nodded without a sound.

“Aww, poor ting, that’s yer first serious storm, ain’t it?”

The boy really was a sad sight.

“Ye’ll get used to dem soon enough… But I have to admit ‘TIS a big one.”

Noel focused on his breathing, eyes still shut.

“The first ting ye should do, is have a lie down. The room’ll spin slower. Trust me.”

The boy opened his eyes but was afraid that if he let go, he would most likely throw up vital organs.

Merrit walked over and stretched out an arm. “Come on, lad, nice n’ easy.”

Noel took his hand and let go of the poll. His head was spinning so fast he couldn’t see or walk straight. The older man walked him to the bed and the boy laid himself down.

This didn’t seem to help much.

“Second ting, ye’ll learn, is to open yer eyes.

Seein’ the room move helps. Focus yer eyes on one fixed point.”

Noel slowly opened his eyes. Merrit was right, he did feel slightly better.

“Thank you”.

“No need to tank me, me boy,” Said the quartermaster as he sat down on the bed beside him and smiled. “We all went through dis”.

The boy reciprocated with a pitiful smile of gratitude.

“Normally I’d tell ye to eat a bite of lemon or an orange, but unfortunately, as ye very well know, we ran out of fresh fruit a long time ago.”

The ship was rattled again by another breaking wave. Noel retched, a quiet whimper escaping his lips.

The quartermaster looked apologetic. “I’m afraid all I can offer ye is a good old friend and an ancient remedy.”

The old man took out a flask from his jacket and handed it to Noel. The young man propped up on his elbow, grabbed the flask with the other hand and took a large fast sip. The burn of the drink took him by surprise and he coughed and choked.

This was no Rum.

“Easy dere boy, ye need to be careful with that; ‘tis a secret recipe. I make it meself from potato peels.”

It was a good thing Noel felt like he was on his death bed, or he would have broken down howling with laughter.

“Ye know, I remember me first storm as if it were yesterday,” Merrit continued, “Aye, it was…”

Suddenly a loud crash was heard, obviously made by something shattered against the deck, and the vessel shuddered in horror.

The boy gasped, instinctually closed his eyes and clutched Merrit’s left hand, squeezing it tight.

“Oh, me poor boy” said the quartermaster placing his right hand over Noel’s and stroking it gently. “Me beautiful, beautiful boy…”

Noel’s eyes shot open.

“Actually, I think I better go now. They need me in the galley”

“Nonsense, nobody be doin’ any cooking in a time like this. Ye should lie here and rest.”

“I-I do feel much better.”

The boy sat up, trying to regain focus in his eyes and head.

“A few more minutes won’t hurt anyone” said the quartermaster and placed his hand on Noel’s chest, pushing him back down. He never looked as ugly.

“I’d like to leave now, please”, the young man whispered

“Shh, don’t fight it”.

The boy mustered all his powers and flung himself off the bed. He stood looking around him frantically, searching for the door.

“Thank you, urm, sir, for your, F-for the… OH!”

Merrit got up and was coming at him at a steady pace.

The ship swayed back and forth and the dizzy Noel struggled to keep his footing, with each rock the stools, boxes and tables dragged across the room threatening to crash themselves into the two men. He stumbled for the wall, holding on to it and walking around the room towards the exit as quickly as he could.

Master Merrit went straight across the room and cut in front of the cabin boy, blocking him with his heavy body. The quartermaster was now facing him, his arms against the wall, trapping the young man from both sides. Noel gave a tremble as he felt the older man’s breath on his face.

“Why the change of heart?”

“What?”

“Why are ye so shy all of de sudden?”

“Please, I don’t under…”

“I’ve seen the way ye look at me… dose smiles and winks… dat touch.”

“What?!!?”

“Believe me; I understand exactly how ye feel”.

The man puckered his lips and leant forward, but the boy shut his mouth tight and turned his head.

“Just admit it; it’s what we both want.”

He grabbed Noels chin forcefully with his right hand and pushed his mouth against the young man’s, his tongue trying to penetrate his mouth, his body ramming him hard into the wall.

“What’s goin’ on here?!”

The cook’s eyes were burning with rage, as he stood at the now open door.

“Noting, noting at all” said the quartermaster, still holding Noel’s chin in his hand.

“The boy was just a bit dizzy.”

“Well, we need him in the kitchen”.

Merrit took off his hand, but the boy didn’t move.

“Noel, get over here, RIGHT NOW!”

The young man blinked a couple of times then broke away from the human barrier and walked shakily towards Julian.

Julian took him by the wrist, whilst still glaring at Merrit. Storming off, he dragged Noel behind him.

“God, Noel, how could ye be so stupid?” the cook raised his voice as they were mid-way down the corridor, still holding the boy’s hand.

Abruptly he stopped, turning to face Noel.

“Did he hurt ye?”

The boy looked at the taller man and said nothing.

Julian let go of his hand and shook him by the shoulders, “DID HE HURT YE?”

“no…”

“Oh, thank god!” the cook flung his arms around him in a hug that surprised even himself. Noel stood tucked safely in his arms when suddenly he pushed away, turned his back and threw up.

Julian softly held back the boy’s hair as he continued to vomit. In between retches Noel looked up with thankful eyes.

“Yeah, I know—save the hair. We can’t have ye still findin’ cabbage chunks three weeks from now.” The boy gave a tired giggle then bent down again…

“All done now?” the cook asked when the young man finished his fourth round and

wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve. He nodded.

The two men resumed their walking and nearly reached the kitchen when Noel broke the silence without raising his head. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright, ye’ll be the one cleanin’ it up in a couple of minutes” the cook said smiling.

The boy halted and Julian did the same.

“No, I mean, I’m sorry” he said avoiding the tall man’s eyes, staring at the floor.

“What? No, this is not yer fault, ye hear me?”

It was as if a dam was about to burst in Noel, threatening to drown the both of them. The cook took the younger man’s face in his hands “I didn’t mean it, ye’re not stupid. He’s a sick man, and it was NOT yer fault!”

The boy looked up and his eyes met Julian’s. So wide and blue and wet, like a puppy, with the same look they had the first time the cook saw them, that night in the cabin, all them months ago… A rush of adrenalin overtook the cook and he closed his eyes and urgently pressed his lips against Noel’s, with a deep breath.

“Oh, god…”

Julian tore away. The realization of what he just did immediately sunk in.

“Oh, god, no, no, no…” There was a tremble in his voice.

The young man looked at him with shock. The cook, his hands grabbing his own head, stumbled back with an expression of horror.

“Noel, no… I’m so sorry”.

The younger man didn’t speak and stared at Julian blankly.

“Please, I’m so sorry…” The cook shook his head and continued to distance himself with shaking steps. Then he stopped—he seemed to have momentarily cleared his mind and straighten his thoughts.

“Please, Noel, no matter what just happened, listen to me: ye must go inside and board the door until the storm passes!

Do it. NOW!”

The boy nodded and went inside and Julian turned and ran away as fast as his legs allowed him.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Two hours after the storm subsided, Julian made his silent way into the cabin.

He crawled into his bunk bed, where he laid awake till morning—tortured by the sound of Noel sighing in his sleep.

He was tossing and turning and he felt physically ill.

How could he?

How could he do that?

What kind of a man are you?

Noel trusted you!

He’s like a son to you!

But he couldn’t stop himself. The boy’s face was etched on the inside of his eyelids, the feel of those lips burnt deep onto his own…

How he longed to feel the warmth of that body, touch that skin, inhale his scent, taste that mouth again.

Oh, the things he imagined himself doing to him.

Horrible, violent, abominable things… to his only friend!

He desperately fought the urge to touch himself, as his own body disgusted him.

He was just like them.

He was an animal.

He couldn’t let his guard down, afraid of what he’ll do in his sleep. So he waited till sunrise, when Noel woke up, and approached the young man with a pained look and a firm voice.

“We have to get ye out of here.”