It would sadden her a little when it happened, but she knew the way that men could be and so when she felt the unasked-for and unwelcome touch of a rough hand on her backside, she'd warn the man once loudly. "Take your hand off me while you still have it, you stinking goat," she'd say in a voice which wasn't loud, but it could be heard rather clearly all the same as she switched to her more natural way of speaking, "De nex time, I'll 'ave your manhood off and spattered over de deck for you to clean away."
The trouble was that some men had it in their little minds that when a woman says 'no', it really means 'yes', or at worst, 'maybe later'. More than once every three months, she'd have to make good on her warning as a man took more daring liberties with his hands. By then a lot of times, the sight of her drawing her piece would make all but the most foolish or stupid back away quickly, but there were always some who preferred to think with their dicks.
Those ones would end up weeping in pain and regretful shame as they bled into a wad of rags held between their thighs while they were forced to wash their own blood off the planking. She'd originally thought that after her ' lessons', men like that would prove useful, no longer having the distraction which had caused them so much trouble, but the sad fact was that they all died within four days at the outside, no matter what was done.
She had two primary functions as far as Hawke's business went. She proved herself to be a quick study and in very little time, could demonstrate that she could handle a sailing ship as well or better than any man. In a fight with another vessel, Bess could command a ship's crew with telling effect -- yelling commands in her Jamaican patois even as she helped swab out the hot barrel of a cannon herself prior to reloading it and laying it onto its next target. And once the fight was gunwale-to-railing, she was among the first ones over to the other deck with a cutlass in one hand and a pistol in the other.
The other thing that she did for them all was either influence the weather -- or guide the ships around and between the storms of the Caribbean. Nobody was sure which it was, though she'd often proven to them all that she was worthy of their trust.
At night, Molly Hawke lay in the arms of a rather handsome man and she loved the way that his hands felt on her body. So often, he'd ask her to just stay with him there in his cabin and he could stare at her body for hours, so taken with her loveliness and the way that she did anything, from sitting and darning his clothing to just the way that she could sit at the window and watch the sea.
More than once, Hawke had given her command of an armed (and very fast) Bermuda sloop, a regular sloop-of-war, and one armed ketch. And one time to Hawke's amazement, she'd used them to carve through a squadron of Spanish warships, there to escort and guard a convoy of gold-laden galleons.
"How in the world can we get a bit of that?" Hawke had asked as they'd watched from the shadows of the trees as the galleons had been loaded the week before, "I am loathe to say it, Molly, but I think this nut is too hard for even us to think of cracking."
"De trouble wit these ones, "she'd had said in a lilting tone, "is that dey are so bound up in their importance." She pointed off a way, while not being too obvious about it, "Look at dem, " she said, indicating the armed escorts which lay at anchor at the far edge of the harbour, "Every little ting is correct an' perfect because to them, it more important to look their best. When you carry your nose in the air; that is when it happen that you trip over something small. It even happen to Spaniards," she smiled.
She put her arms around Hawke's neck, "Give me a ship and I can show you. While he wonder what it was that him trip over, I'll carve off him legs and he'll 'ave no stomach for the fight. Do this and I will hand you at least one galleon, Alexander, my love."
On the day that the galleons sailed, it had been overcast. As the day went on, it grew more so and a mist began to form as the wind held and the world seemed to close in on them all a little in a gentle rain. The warships guarding the galleons held off a mile distant, fearful of collisions in the fog.
It was near six that evening and the first of the meals was being served to the captains and higher officers when three ships were spotted by the lookouts. They came racing out of the fog flying no banners or flags at all and as they pulled into sight, they spread themselves to pass through the squadron at speed with every rag they had up billowing on their masts.
Other than this manoeuvre, it was as though the three ships weren't aware of the warships at all. The commodore in charge of the escorts was surprised, but it was clear that the newcomers appeared to be just as surprised by their meeting in the fog and took up their formation so that they could pass right through, and everyone doubted from their course and speed that these three ships even knew of the convoy in the first place.
No one but Bess knew that all of them had been wrong.
The commodore ordered the guns to be loaded as a precaution, but the crews had been looking forward to a bit of supper and things went a little slowly as the Spanish deckhands stood at the railings of their ships, trying to see and speculate on who this was and what they were about.
Three of the captains of the warships suddenly found themselves on the wrong ship, since they'd been invited to dine with the commodore -- an occurrence which Bess knew would happen the first evening out.
She stood alone at the wheel on the quarterdeck of the Bermuda sloop, knowing full well that every man with a spyglass would be watching. There were lots of her own marksmen lying hidden out of sight on her decks, but she knew that everyone only saw her as she kept her mast and yardarms from striking the slower ships that she was overtaking.
All that she wore was a pair of tight breeches stuffed into high boots and, while she wore a white shirt borrowed from Hawke - since it would be large and offer her freedom of movement while being visible, it was mostly open and her breasts were easily seen. She wore a kerchief on her head to keep her wild red hair out of sight and trouble.
The Sea Witch Molly Hawke was about to make her mark and become a bit of a feared name on the Spanish Main - or what was left of it by then.
They were still almost thirty yards away from passing through the squadron when Bess looked over - straight into the eyes of the watch officer on the nearest of the warships. He called over with a laugh, asking her what sort of whore that she was and the soon to be famous Molly Hawke smiled back and replied in clear Castilian Spanish that she was the sort known for breaking huevos -- eggs; a word which might also mean testicles in that language.
While dozens of Spaniards gaped at her breasts, she drew one of her pistols, yelled out an order as she cocked it and she fired as she began to pull directly across, killing the man instantly. The Spanish officers jumped at the sound and they stared as they watched the covers over the gunports of all three ships open and the dark muzzles of the cannons protrude from them ominously. There was nothing they could do but scramble, knowing that it would do them no good now.
The lambs were about to maul the lions, and right in their dens, too.
The Spanish crews braced themselves as best they could, but when Bess' cannons began their booming songs, they weren't singing at the sides of the Spanish ships. The gun crews of the warships watched in disbelief from their own ports as the raider's guns passed them by only yards away; elevated as much as possible to aim higher. The raiders were right beside them, and not one Spanish cannon was loaded and ready to fire yet.
Bess wasn't aiming at them; since that was where the best armour was on a warship anyway. Her guns below-deck were loaded with chain-shot and the air was filled with the whining buzz and smoke as the rigging on each of the four ships was shot to ribbons. Bess yelled again and the crews manning her deck guns jumped to their stations to haul back the tarpaulins from their pre-loaded guns and open fire, raking the Spanish decks clean of humans. Any man fool enough to even stand was obliterated in an instant.
