No Pirate Stole the Bride

The keys came through the hatch first. Then one pearl button. Then her bare feet on the stone. White cloth gathered in one fist. We waited under Greyhaven Fort, our wrists along one bar. Her father meant to hang us where our confiscated brig lay moored. She wore the dress prepared upstairs, its hem grey from the stair. No veil. No shoes. No lantern. Only keys against her palm. She looked along our iron line and asked which man could steer. I said, “I held that wheel before your father took it here.” She opened every lock in order, then placed the ring with me. “The lower yard is empty. The harbor boom lifts on his seal.” Above us, chairs crossed floorboards. The wedding guests sat down. Below, every length of iron fell softly to the ground. No pirate stole the bride. She brought the prison keys. She cut our irons one by one and gave our ship the sea. Let the governor's guns keep saying we dragged her from his side. She stood barefoot at the wheel. No pirate stole the bride. We crossed the covered battery while gun crews dressed for vows. She knew the sentry with the cough, the gate that sagged when raised. Our brig lay stripped of powder, but the mainsail still was bent. We freed it with our swollen hands. She gave the tide consent. Her father reached the parapet, white coat buttoned to his throat. He raised the brass speaking horn: “They've taken her. Stop that boat.” She held his seal above the rail. The harbor master bowed. The iron boom came out of the water. She never turned around. His cannon crews could see her between their sights and sea. No gunner fired through white cloth. She handed course to me. No pirate stole the bride. She opened harbor chain. She faced the loaded battery and would not speak her name. Let the governor's horn keep calling her silence proof we lied. She held the course beyond the mole. No pirate stole the bride. Beyond the outer headland, I found our warrants below. Each bore the governor's hanging seal and names of men I knew. The letters leaned the way hers did. Black ink marked her left cuff. I carried them up to the wheel. “You wrote these?” She said, “I did.” “My father spoke the sentences. My hand made each one clean. I copied yours before they cut the timber for the beam. Tomorrow I would sign beside him. After that, I would not leave. I did not open you because there is no fault in me. I opened you because there is. This is the page I chose to change.” She laid the warrants on the deck. She did not ask our grace. No pirate stole the bride. She stole us from the Crown. She wrote the names that bound our wrists, then came to cross them out. Let the mainland print its legend. Let her father keep his lie. She stood barefoot at the wheel. No pirate stole the bride. She tore a strip from the white hem and bound the youngest wrist. I held her father's keys out. She opened both her hands. They struck the rudder once below. No one looked astern.