For Tommy. Thank you for always putting up with me and a wrecked house during the writing process; and for giving me the opportunity to literally do what I want. I love you.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
©Lori Ann Robinson, 2020
Caribbean Sea, 1695
The ship bounced and swayed beneath the heaving seas as the crew on deck struggled to maintain their hold on the rigging. Muscles strained and grunts were heard as the planks creaked and the ropes threatened to rip fingers from hands.
Rain pelted the men like shards of glass raining from the sky. Stinging their skin with cold brutality, which left many of them wishing they’d chose a different life other than the one that had them struggling to control a massive heap of wood in a raging ocean.
The squall blew up out of nowhere and as far as the spotter in the crow’s nest could tell, no land was in sight. This was both a blessing and a curse.
If they were far from land, there would be no rocks to crash into the hull of the ship, disabling them and possibly marooning them to their deaths. However, as lightning bolted across the sky overhead, they knew one well directed strike could see them all sinking to a watery grave with no hope of swimming to shore if they truly were in open water. What the sea didn’t claim, the sharks would. Either scenario was a grim one.
A lone figure stood at the ship’s wheel. His long blonde hair flying out behind him as his massive forearms struggled to steer the bucking vessel through the cresting waves.
The white lawn of his cotton shirt was soaked through, outlining the strength and muscles of his well-defined shoulders, chest and stomach, while his britches strained with the effort of containing the muscular legs as they kept a wide stance, leather booted feet spread wide for balance.
His rugged face was a mask of grim determination as his narrowed green eyes attempted to see anything beyond the bow of the ship. Nothing but sheets of gray driving rain met his vision.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the men working furiously to bring down the sails and control the rigging. They were toiling as hard as he was to see the ship safely through the squall. Their efforts renewed his decision; today was not a good day to die for any of them.
Their ship was bound for their homeport of Nassau and he’d see that it reached its destination. The men had served well upon this journey as they intercepted merchant ships sailing from the Orient toward the colonies, bringing fine fabrics, spices, wine, and even some chests of gold and silver.
As each of those ships was lightened of their load, his had grown heavy with the plunder and that was working against them at the moment. He toyed with the idea of throwing some of the booty overboard in order to give the vessel he sailed some added buoyancy, but discarded the idea as quickly as it came. That was sure way to incite mutiny and with the men working together to keep the ship upright in the churning waves, mutiny was the last thing he needed.
“Captain,” his quartermaster yelled over the howling wind and rain. “We may have to offload some of the last haul. The ship is too heavy. I don’t know how long she can sustain under these kinds of conditions.”
“Not just yet, Cooper,” the Captain said. “The sky is already beginning to lighten on the horizon. If we start throwing the booty off now and this squall dies down, we’ll have dissension among the ranks.”
“Aye, sir,” Cooper nodded before staggering off against the wind to report back to the Sailing Master.
Resuming his fight against the elements, Captain Nicolai Mikhalovic began to pray to every pagan and Christian deity he knew.
Serranilla Bank, Caribbean Sea, 1695
There was nothing on this blasted island save for bat guano and a few skinny rabbits, which were too fast for her to catch.
Adrienne St. John hiked up the torn, sodden end of her shift and walked back to the small shelter of palm fronds she’d built two days ago when she’d first found herself on this tiny uninhabited stretch of beach.
She huddled under the green foliage, clutching her arms over her chest in an attempt to warm herself and shivered. She was tired, hungry, cold, and thoroughly put out that her father had insisted she leave the warmth of Bombay to join her mother in the South Carolina colonies on his merchant ship.
Somehow, the ship’s captain had gone off course and when a squall blew up as they often did this time of year in the Caribbean Sea, they ran aground on some outlying hidden reefs. The last thing she remembered was the ship going down and the screams of the men as they struggled to make it to the lifeboats in time.
She’d woken with a nasty lump on her head and a mouthful of gritty white sand to find herself alone among the wreckage of her father’s ship, which had washed up alongside her.
Adrienne pushed her chestnut colored hair out of her eyes and huffed. She would probably die here, which would actually be a better alternative than being found by the wrong people, she supposed.
Growing up with seamen who worked for her father’s merchant ship line, she was aware of the dangers that surrounded a woman on board. Not that her father’s men ever treated her with anything less than respect; they wouldn’t have dared treat her otherwise. The danger came from pirates and the horror stories she’d heard throughout the years, which had ingrained themselves in her mind.
Starvation might be a slow way to die, but it would certainly be preferable to the fate she would likely meet at the hands of plundering rogues.
The funny thing is, though it wasn’t so funny now, she’d always been fascinated with the Buccaneers of the Sea. She had grown up spending most of her life wishing she’d have been a boy so that she too could experience the wild freedom the pirates she loved to read about so enjoyed.
The closest she’d ever come is dressing up in a cabin boy’s uniform and sneaking aboard one of her father’s ships, determining a life at sea was the life for her. It didn’t take long to be discovered though as the roster of deckhands was updated, those on board knowledgeable about who did or did not belong on the vessel. The ship’s captain had turned around, sailed back into port and promptly delivered to her father. Her bottom had been sore for a week after that.
More than a few times, Adrienne’s capers had earned her the hard side of her father’s palm along with restriction which banned her from doing her favorite thing, spending time walking the soft sandy beaches of their home in Bombay.
This last transgression, however, when she’d stolen a buggy for a joyride through the streets of their city had finally been the straw that broke the proverbial camel.
It was illegal for a woman to drive a coach; something that might have gone unnoticed had she not crashed through Merchant Square because she’d been unable to stop the infernal team of horses in time. The debacle resulted in numerous fines from the English Crown, as well as restitution for the merchants whose wares had been destroyed. Not her finest moment, but she couldn’t stop the grin that now spread over her face when she thought about the wild ride. It had been both terrifying and exhilarating.
She’d like to say the carriage incident was a single event leading up to her current situation, but she couldn’t. It had only been the final deciding factor.
Her father decided that she’d be much better suited living near her mother in the Carolina colonies where she might learn proper behavior for a young lady of her status and age. She had also been informed that an appropriate husband had been located in her mother’s village and through letters, a betrothal had been arranged. Unbeknownst to her this was something that had been discussed at length between her separated par
ents for quite a while now. Her father had been reluctant until the day of the carriage ride. That eventful day had sealed the deal and as it now appeared, her fate.
At 19, she was past the marrying age and there had been no suitors in Bombay that her father deemed worthy or she found attractive. Quite truthfully, it seemed both she and her father were content with her spinster status.
For all her escapades, her father had never pushed the idea of marriage on her, until now. Thus, here she was, betrothed to a man she did not know, bound for a new world with an uncertain future… providing she survived being marooned on this island.
Her stomach growled noisily enough that she could hear it over the pounding rain, reminding her once again of its empty nature and the seriousness of her plight.
She knew her father would search for her once he learned she’d never made it to Charleston port, but that would take time she didn’t have. It could be weeks or even months before he learned his ship had foundered and even then, how was he to know she’d ended up on this God forsaken lump of sand? Was this island even charted?
She reached over and uncorked the bottle of rum, which had washed up with the debris and took a healthy sip. It burned like fire going down, but it dulled the ache in her empty stomach and warmed the chill from her bones. There were five more bottles just like it next to where she sat. Perhaps she could drink herself to death rather than just sitting here waiting to starve.
Chapter 1
“Land ho!” The cry drifted down from the tallest mast as the spotter informed the captain and crew of what lay ahead on the horizon. The rain and wind had finally ceased late in the night and this morning, the crystal clear waters of the Caribbean Sea were as smooth as glass.
Captain Mikhalovic, also known as the ‘Black Wolf’ by those who’d run across him, steered the boat in the direction the spotter shouted down while his Sailing Master consulted the maps.
“It’s likely the uninhabited island of Serranilla Bank,” the man said. “It won’t offer much in the way of fresh water or food, but it’ll give us place to stop for some repairs. We’re only a week from reaching Nassau, but I’d rather not chance the ship’s ability to withstand another storm with the damage she sustained from the previous one.”
“Agreed,” Nicolai said. “We’ve more than enough food and freshwater on board to provide what the island doesn’t. Prepare the men to go ashore, we should make landfall within the hour.”
“Aye, sir,” the Sailing Master said, rolling up the map and taking it below deck with him.
He disliked the idea of stopping so close to Nassau, but was also aware that Damon, his Sailing Master, was most likely correct. The ship would founder under another storm if they didn’t repair some of the damage to the hull and masts. A week was close enough to home, but too far away to risk another mishap if they didn’t give the ship the attention she needed. He’d know more than one band of Pirates wiped from the face of the earth at the decision to push their luck on a limping vessel, especially in the Caribbean.
He wasn’t exactly happy about traversing the Pirate’s Round this time of year with its unpredictable weather, but when they’d gotten intel regarding several heavily laden merchant ships traveling this particular waterway, the opportunity had been too good to let pass.
Merchants had gotten wiser over the years and had taken to transporting their goods during the stormy season; deciding to chance bad weather in the hopes of avoiding pirates who had grown fat and lazy with the riches of plunder. Nicolai hadn’t and though he didn’t enjoy the chaotic weather this region was known for, he had no issue intercepting ships that others in his trade wouldn’t waste the effort on.
He’d made his fortune a thousand times over but still lived for the thrill of the hunt. It never got old and he never regretted the day he’d set foot on his first ship as a poor Russian waif looking to live a better life.
Sure, he was an outlaw and had a price on his head, but they’d have to catch him first and he wasn’t called the Black Wolf for nothing.
For the last twenty years, he and his crew had been sailing the high seas virtually undetected. His ship was disguised as a merchant vessel when they were at port. During his small stints on his plantation in Nassau, he wasn’t Nicolai Mikhalovic. He was Nicolas Von Patten, the beloved, adopted son of an English Nobelman as well as a sugarcane farmer who took personal pride in transporting his own product for trade in the far reaches of the world. Only after sailing into the open ocean would the crew raise his flag of a black wolf on a gray background and his true occupation as a pirate known the world over would resume. Only trusted crew knew his true identity.
They left no witnesses behind when they overtook a ship, always killing the captain and officers while allowing the crew an opportunity to join or die. Once that crew saw how well treated his men were, they usually opted for joining him. The rest became food for the sharks.
He heard the rigging for the longboats deploy as the smaller vessels were prepared to go overboard. Securing his cutlass to his side, Nicolai turned the wheel over to a crewmember that would guide them inland.
A handful of his men would stay behind to guard the ship while the rest went to ensure the island was in fact as uninhabited as they believed.
Out here in this stretch of ocean among the smattering of small cays and landmasses, it wasn’t entirely unheard of to encounter natives or even other pirates who used the smaller or less charted islands to bury treasure. Occasionally one could also run up on a marooned crew or crewmember that had been exiled for attempted mutiny. All were dangerous and all had to be approached with caution.
Nicolai took a seat at the bow of one of the longboats as the men with him took up rowing, bringing them closer to shore with every stroke of the oars. When the boat skidded onto the hard packed sand, the men disembarked into water up to their knees, working together to pull the vessel free from the waves.
He sent groups of men in either direction to scout for signs of life but after seeing how small and sparsely wooded the island was, he seriously doubted any humans made their home here and any pirate marooned would have surely died of starvation or dehydration.
After conducting his own investigation, he walked up the beach towards the direction he’d sent some of his men. Instead of fanning out to search the area, he found them gathering in a cluster off shore in the distance.
Striding toward the crowd as his quartermaster began to wave him over, Nicolai drew up short at the sight of a young woman, arms cradling a half empty bottle of rum as she lay on her side. Her mouth open, she was snoring loudly. Hair covered most of her face but from what he could gather, she was beautiful, even in a drunken, disheveled state.
The white linen shift she wore was dirty and damp as it clung to her curvaceous body. He glanced up at his crew and noticed they were staring down at the woman with hungry eyes, beginning to elbow and whisper to one another. With a sharp look to each, he warned them silently to back off. The woman was off limits.
While they may pillage, plunder and even murder the inhabitants of the ships they intercepted, Nicolai drew the line at raping women and thankfully of the few times they’d encountered women on board, those women had either chosen to end their own lives rather than chance fate at the hands of his men, or they’d been loose women who had no issue with being passed around during the voyage back to Nassau where they promptly either joined a brothel or found some unassuming man to marry them.
This however was different. The innocence on the sleeping woman’s face was obvious as was the fact that her tender body appeared to be unused and unspoiled by the hands of others.
Motioning him away from the crowd of men, his Sailing Master indicated he’d like a private word. Nicolai gave a last warning look to his crew before he moved a few paces off to where Damon was standing.
“There’s debris all over the place on this side of the island. Their ship must have run aground on the reefs during the storm. We’ve seen no other signs of sur
vivors, so I’m assuming she’s the only one.”
Nicolai nodded. “She hasn’t been here very long or she’d be thinner and more the worse for wear. I’m guessing she used the rum to stave off exposure and succeeded in getting herself piss drunk.”
“What should we do with her?” Damon asked.
Nicolai ran a hand through his hair and looked back at the scene. “There’s no food and from what I can see no fresh water. We can’t leave her here so there’s only one option. We’ll be taking her onboard.”
“And where, pray tell, are we going to stow her?” the man asked, his heavy English accent more prominent when he had a problem to solve.
Bringing a woman on board was something no captain wanted unless they ran a passenger vessel, which was equipped for the fairer sex’s comfort. His was a pirating ship, suited for the rugged lifestyle in which they lived. The crew had no quarters of their own, but rather strung hammocks in the mess hall once meals were concluded. Only he, his Sailing Master, and his quartermaster had cabins.
The cabins his officers were assigned were bare bones with a single cot, table and storage trunk. His, however was equipped for comfort with a large bed on a platform of storage drawers, a small dining table and chairs as well as a book shelf to hold the various volumes he enjoyed during long voyages. The rough planks of his floor were covered with a fine rug he’d plundered from the Orient.
He’d sworn when he left St. Petersburg as a half starved ten-year-old wretch, he’d never live uncomfortably again and he’d held true to that.
Nicolai had been fortunate enough after escaping the orphanage he’d lived in for the first ten years of his life, to have joined the right crew. The captain, an Englishman who had taken to piracy after he’d been wrongly stripped of his titles and riches, had treated Nicolai like a son. The man raised him, tutored him and saw to his education while teaching him the trade of plundering. The life Nicolai lived now was a far cry from those of his early years.
Black Wolf Page 1