The sun beat down on us, the cold wind filling the sails and plowing us through the water, ocean spray soaking the deck every few minutes. I was sitting in the pit, as instructed, trying to ignore the jabs and calls from the crew.
“Open yer mouth, Smith!”
“Show us yer tongue!”
“Where's yer aborigine love now?”
All of this and more was continually shouted at me by passersby and those stationed on deck. Somewhere on the ship, John Butler was readying for his part in it.
This better work, Tristan, I thought bitterly, keeping my face out of sight.
“It will work perfectly,” he had assured me the night before. “The crew wants to know what yer made of, aye? So we’ll show them.”
“By staging a fight?” I asked incredulously. “I've never even been in a real fight! They'll know I'm a pushover they can take anything from if they'd like, is that what you want?”
“That is the joy of staging the fight, lassie,” he explained. “Ye will win. We’ll make it look good, John?”
“Aye, sir,” John agreed. “They’ll never know I threw it in the first place.”
“I don't even know how to hold a sword or knife!” Looking for any excuse to avoid getting up in front of the men, I latched onto the first thought that came to mind. Neither of them seemed fazed by my confession, though.
“Here,” Tristan had said, coming to my side and motioning for me to pull the knife out of my boot.
What followed was about an hour or so of me stumbling around, trying to get close enough to swipe at him. It was painfully obvious there was no way I could even pretend to win the fight. Even so, both men agreed that it was the thing to do, hoping it would be convincing enough to fool everyone else.
So, here I was, waiting to win a pretend fight that would convince no one I should be left alone. Fantastic.
John’s voice floated over the top of the crew. It sounded like he was going for the stinking drunk approach, his low, slurred speech calling for me to settle the mystery once and for all.
Here we go, I thought, rising from the barrel I'd been sitting on and pulling the knife from my belt. Turning, I immediately saw that the majority of the crew had gathered round, John already in the middle of the pit, a knife in one hand and a stupid look on his face. For a second, I wondered if he really was drunk.
“Samuel Smith,” he spat out, swaying slightly. “Show me yer tongue!” The men guffawed and I tightened my fist around the handle of the blade.
“Ye’ll need to draw blood,” Tristan had coached me the night before. “They won't believe it otherwise. A knick on his arm won't be enough, either. No, best to slice across the chest.”
“Won't that hurt him, though?”
“I'll be fine, miss,” John had reassured me. “Just don't cut too deep, aye?”
“I'll do my best,” I gulped, nodding.
“Are ye scared, Sammy?” He was taunting me now, trying to give me a good reason to fight without being held responsible by the crew. Fights among new mates were common, I was told, as they established their place in the order of things. Anything more than that would have to be met with a hearing from Tristan, who couldn't allow feuds to be waged on board. Anyone who thought it went too far could bring me to trial and then I would be in even worse trouble.
“I'll tell ye what, Sammy,” he continued, hiccupping halfway through the phrase. “Ye beat me in a duel, and we’ll all leave ye and yer tongue alone. Aye?” The crew roared its approval at this, the anticipation of a brawl eating at them forcefully.
That was my cue. Stepping forward, I stabbed toward him and he jumped out of the way, the crew bursting into sound around us. We'd rehearsed a few of the steps, but I couldn't ever get them perfect, so I moved back and forth, not knowing how to proceed. John stabbed at me and I moved just in time, feeling the blade glance over my jacket. The racket from the crew made it hard to concentrate and my hand shook some, my blood pumping furiously. After a few more feeble stabs on my end, I finally saw the opening he was giving me and I dashed forward, cutting him clean across the chest.
Dropping to the ground in surrender, he held up his hand for me to stop.
“To much whiskey!” someone in the crowd yelled. “He can't stand!” A roar of laughter rippled through them as John stood, holding his chest, looking like his pride had been gravely injured.
“We can't have that, can we?” Thomas Randall shot out of the crowd, grabbing me from behind and wrestling the knife from my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tristan tense, rising from where he'd been sitting to watch. John’s eyes widened, but all he could do was back away.
“Sammy,” Thomas said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Let's open your mouth, shall we?” Releasing his hold on my arms, his fingers scratched at my mouth, shoving their way past my lips and against my clenched teeth.
Digging my nails into the backs of his hands, I tried to pull him away, but he wasn't budging. Panic threatened to override me, but, as I glanced at Tristan again and saw him give the slightest of nods, an instant calm filled me instead.
In Arizona, I'd taken a self-defense class with a few other girls in my major. It was a weekend thing, but it had helped us feel so much better about being out on our own. Having never used it after that, some of the knowledge had faded away, leaving scraps for me to sort through at times.
With an attacker on me at this very moment, the information flooded back, and I jumped into action. Moving swiftly, I swung my elbow down into his stomach, hitting him as hard as I could. Caught off guard, he doubled over, hands leaving my face. I wasn't done there, however, slamming my foot down on top of his. He yelped in surprise, bending forward right into my fist that was aimed directly at his nose. Just as I'd been taught in class, he jerked back and I used the remaining downward swing of my punch to nail him in the groin. The groan from the crew was instantaneous as he grabbed himself, tumbling away. It was only seconds before he was back on his feet, charging at me. Without even thinking about it, I fell to the ground, grabbing my knife, and swung it up toward him, cutting a long line across his cheek.
Surprised, his fingers brushed his face, the blood dripping off him and splattering on the deck beside us.
“You little shit!” He spat, trying to slow the flow with his palm. “You'll pay for that!”
“That's enough,” Tristan called, stepping out from among the crew. “Ye’ve had yer fun, now the lot of ye leave Mr. Smith alone.”
“Aye, sir,” came the mumbled replies. Some of the crewmembers were staring at me with a respect I'd never seen before, others with speculation. Thomas was giving me a look that surely meant death, but he slunk off all the same, hand pressed against his face.
“Mr. Smith, please don't make fighting a habit,” Tristan added coolly. “That's not how we operate here.”
Nodding, I straightened my hat, thinking a quick prayer of thanks since it had somehow managed to stay on during both fights, and took my leave of everyone still watching.
Swept Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book One) Page 31