by Tamara Gill
A hearty cheer followed his order. Doctor Anderson nodded as he flew past in Elmwood’s wake. Tension filled the air as an eerie quiet descended over the decks. The crew worked in double-time, securing rigging, hoisting additional sails to catch the wind. Shouts rang upward from the gun deck as artillery was loaded and wheeled into place. Every man aboard would do their part to defend the ship and the lives upon it.
“What are our chances of survival?” Sarah’s quiet question sent chills over his skin.
He pivoted to study her face. Dark shadows pooled beneath eyes red-rimmed from crying. She’d caught her bottom lip between her teeth, an unconscious gesture that sent fire into his blood and was the only testament to her worry. The rest of her stance was rigid, poised, every muscle primed for action. God, she looked magnificent, vengeance personified. His heart lurched. He hoped one day she’d defend him as fiercely as she’d done her father’s and now Tommy’s memory.
“Quite high actually.”
“Try again, Captain, and without the ego.” She advanced a few steps, her limp barely noticeable to him by now. A flash of humor twinkled in her expressive eyes before it vanished beneath another, stronger emotion.
“Death is a chance, like every other battle we engage in, of course. However, I intend to do everything in my power to come out the victor.”
She nodded. “There is much to live for beyond the ghosts of our past.”
“Indeed.” Shock plowed through his gut at the admission. He did want to live, not just through this battle, but for many years afterward. No longer did he care what his family did or didn’t think of him. His life was here, on this ship, and if God granted him grace, at Sarah’s side. Once it was too dangerous to be a pirate, he hoped she’d follow him into retirement—into a bit of an idyllic life on land. “Give ‘em hell, Sarah.” He held out a hand, in friendship, in camaraderie, in respect.
“You do the same, Adrian.” She clasped his fingers in a sure, steady grip.
Mutual understanding passed between them. Heat traveled up his arm from their contact. He squeezed her fingers before releasing her. “Keep to the upper deck if you can. If the masts collapse or if we are overrun—”
“Don’t borrow trouble, Captain.” The smile she bestowed upon him rivaled the gaining lightning. “I expect you in my bed on the morrow. No exceptions.” She strode away, proud and fierce with her limp, and disappeared to the deck below.
How she’d acclimated from missionary’s daughter to a confident, seductive, soon-to-be pirate amazed him. Not privy to her thoughts, he wondered how she’d squared the good and the bad of it with her conscience. How did she bridge the two separate parts of herself and live in the common ground between? Consigning it to the realm of female mystery, Adrian gripped the railing.
The Lady Catherine pitched to port before leveling out. Down below, Elmwood and his apprentice fought the wheel for control. The winds had increased their speed, filling the sails to maximum. The ship sliced through the angry, black water, straining as the waves broke against the hull. Waves broke over the middle deck and sent water streaming across the planks. Both the storm and the Isabella steadily gained. The cargo from the French vessel weighed his ship down and slowed their flight. Adrian frowned. It couldn’t be helped. He refused to give it up or allow the Lady Catherine to go down.
“Hold steady, Elmwood! That squall line is about to overtake us.” He raced to the deck below, striding through the waist and barking out orders. “Trim the sails, boys. We don’t want them to rip. Secure the rigging! Strap down loose cargo.”
As he approached the stairs, he hollered down, “Little Jim! Get the swivel guns up here and secured throughout the waist with enough men to mind them. I want that frigate’s crew disabled as quickly as possible.” With a greater mobility and good range, the swivels would do a better job of incapacitating the Spanish ship by killing or maiming crew. They were also fantastic in repelling boarders. “Bring plenty of grape shot with you.”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
Adrian straightened. He walked the deck, obliged to skirt around the puddles and stains of blood near some of the masts. Brax had apparently carried out his orders to the letter. Here and there droplets of blood led toward the rails, a sure indication the traitorous men had indeed been thrown overboard.
Such was the law of piracy. Kill or be killed. Survival was the greatest achievement.
Before long the rain and waves would obliterate any trace of the violence. He wiped at the sweat on his forehead beneath his hat. The wind only stirred the heat over the decks. At least when the rains came, the temperatures would drop. As men brought the requested swivel guns to the deck, Adrian kept his gaze trained on the Isabella. So close now he discerned the shapes of its crew lining the decks. He clenched his jaw. This wouldn’t be as easy a fight as bringing down the French ship.
“Men, gather ‘round.” He waited the space of several heartbeats as the men without urgent jobs assembled in front of him. “Once again I must ask that you put your lives on the line for me and for the Lady Catherine. The Isabella looks armed to the teeth. She won’t go down without casualties.”
Growls of consent and agreement cycled through the gathering.
“Protect the Lady Catherine, protect her cargo, and defend yourselves. For each one of our crew who dies, I expect you to kill two of their men in retribution.” He met the gazes of the nearest pirates, unashamed of the order. His ship and his men were his first priority. “It’s doubtful the Isabella carries much cargo, as she’s too small a ship for salvage. As always, make sure she never sails again.”
A hearty cheer rose up from his men. Adrian grinned. They believed in their work and would carry out his orders with their dying breath. They were more family than blood, and more loyal as well.
“Good luck gentlemen.” He turned in a slow circle and nodded at his fellow pirates. Wedged in the middle of the crowd, Sarah gazed at him with a healthy dose of apprehension in her expression. He nodded at her. Good luck, Sarah my Sarah.
No sooner did he conclude his speech than both the storm and the Isabella were upon them.
Rain slashed down in near horizontal sheets. It slapped against the decks and left them wet and slick. Jagged streaks of lightning illuminated the fat, dark clouds. Thunder rolled in the distance. Adrian shoved his hat lower on his forehead. Water already dripped from the brim.
“Engage!”
The roar of cannon fire split the air around him. It was closely followed by shouts and cries from the crew. The Lady Catherine shook as another blast from a cannon splintered portions of the hull. His second-in-command staggered onto the deck, clothes streaked with blood. “Brax, report!”
“‘ole opened up in the port bow, sir, well above the water line. Two of our cannons disabled.” The burly man wiped at the rain on his face. “Elmwood’s tryin’ to get us in boardin’ range, but the sea’s pretty angry.”
“Carry on.” Adrian maneuvered across the deck to the steering compartment. “Hold the line, Elmwood. Don’t let a little wind and rain fail this mission.”
The red-haired man, as well as Elmwood’s apprentice, held the wheel. “Tryin’ our best, Captain. Might as well employ the swivel guns now. This is the best I can do.”
“Not good enough. Try harder.” Adrian strode down the center of the waist. Men lined the rails, as the gunnery crew constantly loaded, fired and reloaded the guns. “Fire at will, gentlemen! The rest of you prepare for boarding.”
He braced his legs against the pitching waves. Somehow Elmwood maneuvered them close enough that only twenty feet separated the ships. As soon as the grappling hooks went over, more of the same clattered on the Lady Catherine’s deck. “Incoming!” A rush of his crewman intercepted the intruders, but another wave quickly came aboard to engage the rest in hand-to-hand combat. Bodies from both ships fell to the decks. Blood mixed with rainwater and swirled in abstract eddies along the planking.
Adrian drew the saber from his belt. The pistol, th
ough slightly more accurate, took too much time to reload. His blade would do for now. Instantly, a Spaniard engaged him, and they slipped into an intricate dance for mastery and death. His boots skidded on water and entrails, yet he refused to give quarter. His opponent didn’t relent either.
Steel rang on steel as he blocked each thrust and parry. The blows edged through his arm and into his elbow, producing a numbing effect. He gritted his teeth and carried onward. When the swarthy man stumbled at a particularly violent pitch, Adrian found his opening. He rammed the point of his blade through the man’s chest. Blood bubbled from the wound when he withdrew the saber. His opponent collapsed to the deck.
Thank God.
There was no time to rest on his laurels as another flood of Spaniards boarded the ship. He fought them off one-by-one alongside other members of his crew. It was much like a well-choreographed waltz only the stakes were life and death instead of courtship. Steadily, he was forced to retreat. Up the wet deck he went, slipping, sliding, and stumbling over all manner of debris. Cries of the wounded and dying echoed all around him. The rain beat onto his back. Then the wind shifted and blew the precipitation into his face, blinding his vision. The ship rocked crazily as the cannons roared, and still the enemy advanced. He had to trust his crew could take care of themselves.
Fatigue set in. His right arm felt as strong as cooked parsnips. When he took a step backward, he tripped over a severed arm and fell onto his arse. His saber slipped from his hand. The blade skittered across the deck, coming to rest ten feet from his position. His attacker laughed. He crowed victory in his native tongue.
Adrian blinked against the deluge of rain. “I always wondered if I’d see the face of the man who managed to kill me.” He put a hand to the hilt of his dagger, prepared to fight to the bitter end. Struggling into a kneeling position, he glared. “Will you be that man?”
“Today is a good day—for me.” The Spaniard lifted his blade for the death blow. His eyes bulged. Blood trickled from his mouth. The silvery tip of a cutlass protruded from his chest before it was wrenched away, and the man crumpled to the deck.
“I believe that man misspoke. It is a good day—for me. Besides,” Sarah stepped over the dying man without complaint as if she’d been doing just that all her life. She stood in front of Adrian with one hand on her hip. “If anyone gets the honor of killing your rotten hide, it will be me. Find your feet, Captain Westerbrooke. We have work to do.”
He gazed at a wet and bedraggled Sarah as if he’d never seen her before. One side of her skirt sported a slash from hem to hip while a smear of blood colored her left cheek. Scratches marred her sword-wielding arm and somehow during the fight, she’d acquired a weapon belt, which lay slung low around her hips. Hot words shot to his lips, words he’d wanted to blurt out down in the hold, but he bit them back. This wasn’t the time. Instead, he said, “We’re even. My life for yours. The debt’s repaid.” Yet the wondrous sensation persisted. It was much like drowning except only his heart seemed affected. Dazed, he stood and retrieved his saber. “I want these bastards off my ship.”
“I agree, Captain.” She smacked his backside with the flat of her cutlass. “In case you wanted to know, I very much dislike the rain as well.”
His lips twitched as he attempted to contain a grin. “When this is over, I promise you can indulge in two days of leisure while I ply you with hot tea and cater to your every whim.”
“We shall see.” She jabbed at an approaching sailor. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
Adrian sidestepped a rolling cannon ball. “I can arrange a few tasks to keep those pretty hands busy.”
“I will hold you to that promise. Now, I am needed by Doctor Anderson. See that you stay alive without my help this time.” With a wink, she scurried away.
He had never looked forward to his future more.
*****
As the first golden rays of dawn broke, Adrian again stood at his customary place behind the mast on the officer’s deck. Activity on all decks had thinned considerably since the night before. Only a few bodies littered the planking. A couple novice deck hands swabbed the areas, removing most traces of blood and entrails. As the bits of human remains went overboard, possessive cries of gulls and terns shrilled through the silence. He cringed. Life had the capacity for irony that nothing else could match. While he regretted the loss of the men, their very loss meant continuing life for the birds.
The fury of the storm had died into a light drizzle. The winds remained strong, pushing away the last of the rain clouds. He filled his lungs with a deep draught of salty air then let the breath ease out between his lips. Black, acrid smoke marred the perfection of the morning. He narrowed his eyes as he watched the Isabella burn. It had been a hard-won victory for his crew, and not without heavy casualties, the fight lasting hours. He’d lost twenty-eight men during the battle, men who he considered friends and loved better than family. Among the dead was Little Jim, stabbed in the back by a dying Spaniard.
Each loss pained his heart, but he’d never talk about it. Pirate captains were not expected to show emotion let alone grief. He needed to remain strong for the rest. They’d look to him for guidance, for their next steps into a future that none of them could divine out. Though he never promised this life would be easy, most of the time they never complained. For that he was truly thankful. Yet, the dead would be missed, their passing marked by him in spirit.
“Showing emotion will not mean you’re weak.”
He turned at the sound of Sarah’s voice. She stood behind him, lines of fatigue in her face. Blood stained the skirt and bodice of her dress, from the fighting or assisting the doctor he couldn’t say. As long as it wasn’t hers, he didn’t much care. “Thank you for the insight.” Visually, she appeared more or less unharmed from the battle, though he wondered how she fared mentally. She’d been forced to fight in a skirmish not of her doing, live a lifestyle she hadn’t chosen. His Sarah had witnessed the savage death of the cabin boy; she’d seen more gruesome acts anyone had a right to. How did she feel? He couldn’t ask her, wouldn’t know how to begin in case she announced she didn’t want any of it or him, so he ignored it and changed the subject. “I assume you made arrangements for Tommy?”
“Yes. I wrapped him in my cloak. He admired it so much, was always touching it.” Her voice wobbled. “Brax helped me give him to the sea. Doc Anderson said a few words. I cannot tell you how much I appreciated them being with me.”
“As opposed to me, who stayed well away from the drama?” Annoyance knifed through his gut and he pivoted back to stare at the burning remains of the Isabella.
“You stayed away for your own reasons, but we all grieve in our own way, Adrian. This has been a difficult day for you. Don’t lie to yourself or me by saying it hasn’t been.”
Every battle was hard and took a toll on him. Each death robbed him of a piece of his soul. “I think of young Tommy. The boy had such potential.” He allowed a small, tired smile. “His greatest joy was retrieving my hat every morning. When I pressed him into service watching over you, his happiness knew no bounds.”
“We make an impression on people every day, in many different ways. He wanted to emulate you. That is a high compliment indeed.”
“Perhaps.” Adrian wasn’t naïve enough to believe life was so black and white. He leaned his arms on the railing and bowed his head. “Those lost today will be missed.” At times like this, doubt and second-guessing plagued his soul. If he hadn’t demanded that the men join his crew, if he hadn’t chased after valuable cargo, there was a chance, however slim, none of this would have happened. Yet navigating the seas was becoming more dangerous as various navies patrolled the waters. The brigands remaining were desperate for coin and preserving a way of life that was fast going extinct.
“You cannot blame yourself.” When she touched a hand to his back, he flinched. “Your crew would do anything for you. As you’ve said many times before, piracy is a business venture like any o
ther. They know the risks. So do you.”
“Perhaps the risks are too high after all.” His muscles ached from the fight, but not as much as his heart or his soul. Coming hard on the heels of his startling revelation regarding Sarah, Adrian thought he might break apart at the seams from emotions and thoughts he never knew he could harbor.
“No, you merely need to put things back into perspective. Everyone becomes maudlin when death visits.”
“Perspective?” He swung around and confronted her. “Let’s use you for example. I kidnapped you, forced you to follow my rules and dictates, demanded your compliance in the bedroom and put you into grave danger in which you nearly lost your life twice.” He ticked off the items on his fingers. “What did you gain from these experiences except to despise me and what I am?” At least with the argument he could vent his spleen without showing weakness. Unfortunately, Sarah just happened to be handy to receive his ire.
“You are an ass if that’s what you think.” She glared, her eyes shooting brown fire. “While I freely admit I did feel angry and resentful of you at first, my opinion of you and your work has been revised.”
“How so?” In a span of weeks he’d had cause to question himself more than he’d ever done since giving his life over to piracy.
“Just as I would never expect you to feel comfortable spending Sundays involved in church-related activities, nor would I ever expect to see you on your knees pleading for your soul before God, I will probably never feel comfortable taking another person’s life.” She licked at the corner of her lip. “Are both of these activities a necessary part of this life? Yes, in different ways, but it doesn’t mean either of us is wrong, it merely means we have differing viewpoints. It’s what we find between that really matters.”
“I see.” Adrian returned to his post at the railing. Loud cracking sounds rent the air and the skeleton of the Isabella sank beneath the waves with a tired sigh. In a way, it was symbolic of his old dreams, the ones he thought he wanted until a certain brown-haired hellion entered his life. In the end, the sea wielded her power and no one could master her. Perhaps that was fate’s plan as well. All things must end at some point; otherwise, no one would aspire to anything. “I won’t blame you for wanting to part ways once we make port. I’m told folks can make a nice living in the islands if one is shrewd in business dealings.” Why the hell couldn’t he tell her what was on his mind? Where had his courage gone?