Pirate's Wraith, The

by Penelope Marzec

  Her musing ended when a man dressed in a long brocade jacket stepped onto the quarterdeck. Ruffled lace adorned his cravat and swirled abundantly about his wrists. The elaborate wig on his head reminded Lesley of pictures of Louis XIV. He had pleasant features, but where the captain was lean and muscular, this overdressed corsair evidently indulged in plenty of the finest food for he had the same shape as a pumpkin.

  “What is the occasion, Mr. Moody? You usually dress in your finery when we land in port.” The captain gave a thin smile to the overdone dandy.

  “It is a fair day, Captain, and we are headed to New Providence. Are we not?”

  The captain appeared to relax. “Indeed we are, Christopher.”

  Moody? Christopher Moody? Lesley clutched the railing. Jim had a bright red flag hanging in the galley of his boat, a replica of Christopher Moody’s flag. According to Jim, the sight of the pennant struck terror at the hearts of all for it meant no quarter would be given and no life spared.

  Lesley stared into the man’s face and a shiver went through her. How could he appear so genial with a heart as black as pitch? Little information about the life of the wicked Mr. Moody had survived the centuries, but his pirate flag had endured—the most colorful and explicit of them all.

  “Is this your new cabin boy?” Moody asked the captain, who gave a slight nod in answer. “Young Lesley, can your fine white fingers bury a knife in an enemy’s heart?”

  Instinctively, she knew she must not allow him to detect any fear. That’s how Jim had gotten the upper hand. No, she would be strong from now on. “I have a bachelor’s degree in biology. I know exactly where hearts are located.”

  Christopher Moody gave a light laugh but a cruel sneer marred his lips. “We must kill to gain our fortune.”

  “There is no need for bloodshed if they hand over their cargo,” the captain reminded.

  “Ah, but the point of a knife held to a throat is often the most valuable for persuasion,” the dandy went on. “What say you, Lesley? Would you hand over your jewels if I ask in a polite manner?”

  “I have no jewels,” Lesley replied.

  “But you may have some soon if we win a large prize.” Moody raised his right eyebrow. “I have quite a collection of baubles. Perhaps you would like to see them sometime.”

  He reminded her of a snake slithering through the grass and waiting for an opportunity to strike. She stepped back.

  “Mr. Moody, the wind freshens.” The captain urged. “Let us be away for New Providence.”

  “Aye, sir. Adventure awaits.” Moody lightly patted Lesley’s shoulder. “We shall be seeing much of each other, since the captain will direct you to give me his orders. I look forward to the pleasure.”

  Lesley’s internal radar went off. Spending any time in Mr. Moody’s company would be a big mistake. Perhaps her costume did not fool him. On the other hand, what if he preferred young boys? Fear held her immobile.

  Another man with fury creasing his features charged up to the captain. Behind him two sailors dragged another man by the arms.

  “Captain, this jack is refusing to do his duty.” The angry man shouted.

  Lesley’s insides churned. The pitiful man in tow did not look well.

  “You are in charge of discipline, Mr. Hooper.” The captain’s voice grew gruff in an instant.

  Mr. Hooper’s eyes took on an unholy gleam. “He shall be flogged!”

  Mr. Hooper barked out orders. Sailors tied the unfortunate victim to one of the masts.

  “Who is Mr. Hooper,” she asked the captain in a whisper.

  “He is our quartermaster.” He delivered his brief answer in a clipped tone.

  Lesley’s stomach churned.

  “I think I’ll go tidy up your cabin now.” She gave the captain a salute. He nodded and she hurried away. She could not watch someone get flogged. How archaic! How barbaric!

  Hadn’t a law been invented to prevent such abuse?

  She struggled to remember all she could about the early years of the eighteenth century. She couldn’t come up with much. She knew the Pilgrims landed in 1620 but she could not think of any other important events until the latter half of the 1700s when the French and Indian War gained George Washington some fame. The Boston Tea Party happened before the Revolutionary War began, though she could not be sure about the date on that. The signing of the Declaration of Independence occurred in 1776.

  What historical milestone marked 1711?

  A sickening realization came to her as the screams of the man being flogged drifted into the captain’s cabin. The Golden Age of Piracy was in full swing. Jim had dressed as a pirate for a Halloween party last year. He had expounded on pirates—horrible, bloodthirsty, merciless men like Blackbeard, Edward Low, and Christopher Moody.

  She would warn the captain about his evil first mate.

  Chapter Four

  Harlan paced the floor while Lesley sat at his desk and sketched the image of a pirate flag belonging to Christopher Moody. What sort of trick did she intend to play? Did she believe her foolery would confuse him?

  “The background consisted of a bright vivid red, not white on black like the traditional pirate flag,” she explained.

  He stopped his restless feet and glared at her. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps she suffered from being weak headed. “Many English privateers fly the red jack.”

  “Oh.” Her hand paused.

  A sudden craving came over him, an urge to lift her hand in his and taste the creamy skin above her dimpled knuckles. He struggled against the inclination. If Lesley was related to Elsbeth in some way, he must be wary.

  She bent low over her drawing, scratching in more details with the quill. “Of course, red symbolized blood, but in addition Moody portrayed an hourglass with wings, an arm holding a dagger, and then the typical skull with crossbones, but he had them painted gold--or perhaps he used gold leaf, which would be very extravagant I suppose, but maybe he did it to display his wealth. Rumors claimed him as a member of Bartholomew Roberts’ crew.”

  “I have never heard of Bartholomew Roberts.” Harlan had not been a pirate for long, but he had already spent half of his life on ships.

  “Roberts captured over four hundred ships.”

  Harlan halted in his tracks. “Impossible.”

  “Jim always gets his facts correct—when it comes to anything nautical.”

  “Jim?”

  “My former fiancé. We were engaged, but the deal is off. I will not marry him.”

  Most of her words still made little sense to him—and yet he managed to comprehend her meaning. “Did you run away to avoid marriage?”

  “No. He can go to hell.”

  He saw her bite down on her lip and wondered why. Strong language from so dainty a woman shocked him. Her fine skin, perfect teeth, and obvious health signaled an upbringing in a well-to-do family. She could not be a child of the street though she spoke as one did.

  He fingered the carved pony in his pocket. Who had given it to her?

  “Jim had a copy of Christopher Moody’s flag on his boat. That’s where I saw it.”

  “You’ve never met Mr. Moody until now?”

  “Uh. No. I’ve only seen a replica of his flag.”

  “But Mr. Moody does not have a ship.” Harlan’s position as captain remained tenuous. The men could hold another election at any time and someone else could become captain. However, Harlan’s knowledge of direction gave him an advantage. He had been almost everywhere on ships and he remembered the sight of every coastline he had visited. Still, the crew could decide if they wanted Moody--or someone else.

  “Well, Moody will have a ship—in the future.”

  His mood veered sharply. Now her nonsense became clear—in a way that chilled him to the core for it reminded him of the pain he had suffered in the past. “Those who claim to know the future and who dabble in the black arts are witches.”

  The quill slipped from her fingers onto the paper and the ink splattered on th
e corner of the paper. Panic touched her delicate features. He narrowed his eyes. Would a witch appear so fearful? Lifting a strand of her hair, he found the feel of the silky filaments sent a thrill straight to his loins and had him believing she possessed the magic of a temptress.

  “Your hair is as black as a raven’s wing. It is said that witches can change form. It could be that you flew upon the ship for how else could you have come? The water is chilly this time of year for swimming. You had no boat. The men would have discovered a stowaway. Why did you appear--other than to bewitch me?”

  “I don’t know anything about spells and magic.” She pulled her hair from his fingers. “If I did do you think I would stay here in this backward century on a boat with a horde of bloodthirsty pirates who rob people—at gunpoint—or knifepoint—and kill them if they don’t hand over their valuables. This ship is full of murderers and thieves.”

  “Enough!” He fisted his hands and held them rigid at his sides.

  Her amazing green eyes closed. A chill went through him as if the sun had been blotted out.

  “Salem.” Though her voice sounded small, it filled the silence in the cabin. “Didn’t that happen in the 1600s? Hasn’t everyone gotten over that by now?”

  Wrapping her arms about her thin frame, she moved to the furthest corner of the cabin. Huddled against the bulkhead, she looked like nothing more than a poor street urchin—not a witch, nor a temptress. Yet, while the connection between them had been severed, he continued to experience a strange pull that drew him toward her. He seemed caught in the sticky whorls of an invisible web and he could not resist moving toward his inevitable doom.

  “Do they still burn witches at the stake?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “They hung the guilty in Salem.”

  “They were not guilty because they were not witches.” She spoke with an unmistakable note of defiance.

  Weariness settled upon him. He did not want to be reminded of Salem. He had found Dr. Gilroy in Salem—or rather Gilroy had found him and healed him. He did owe the doctor his life.

  Since then, despite the doctor’s predilection for scientific experiments, he had proved his usefulness many times over, but bringing Lesley on board could easily be Harlan’s undoing. Especially since he wrestled with his inner demons to keep his hands away from Lesley’s delightful form.

  He went to the desk, placed the pen in the inkwell and slid the paper into a pigeonhole.

  “I want to go home. I want heat and light and caffeine and ... a hot shower.”

  Her plea touched a familiar chord within him. He remembered well the sound of his wife trying to hold back tears—how her tone grew high and tight with emotion. But he could never forgive her.

  Rancor toward his wife festered inside him. He could not let it go. The past rose up and threatened to overwhelm him. It gnawed at him much as that damnable rat had gnawed at that biscuit. Would he be mired in hatred forever?

  His hand brushed against the pocket where the pony rested. He had put so much love into the carving of the small toy for his son. It almost seemed as if some warmth emanated from the wood.

  “Why am I here? Why didn’t I die? Is this what hell is like?” Lesley slid down and curled her body into a ball.

  He would have applied the lash if a cabin boy behaved in such a way, but he did not beat women.

  He stamped out of the cabin in search of Gilroy. The old doctor had caused the problem and he must find an alternative situation. Since they had set sail, Harlan had no intention of stopping until they reached New Providence.

  “Captain! Look ‘ee to port!” Moody’s voice boomed out as Harlan came on deck.

  Harlan glanced east. Dawn had turned the ocean to a bright rose, which did not bode well. Against the glow on the horizon stood the dark shape of a Spanish man of war, but something was amiss. His problem with Gilroy and Lesley would have to wait.

  He leaped onto the poop deck and grabbed the glass from Moody’s hand. The Spanish ship’s sails fluttered uselessly in tatters as it listed to one side. It lay at the mercy of the waves and the tide.

  “Went through a storm by the looks of her.” Moody pointed out. “But she bears the scars of a battle, too.”

  “We have no time to waste on a ship that has already been plundered.”

  “There could be some victims as have been left alive.”

  “The tide will carry them ashore soon enough.”

  “There could be women ...” The glint in Moody’s eyes left no doubt as to his inclinations.

  Harlan’s anger threatened to ignite, but he kept his words even and smooth. “Our ship’s hull is leaking badly. It needs careening more than you need a woman. You can wait until we reach New Providence.”

  “Perhaps I can, but what about the rest of the crew?”

  “Put more of them on the pumps.” He handed the glass to Moody. “In addition assign more men to trap and kill rats. I dispatched one in my cabin last night.”

  “I should think the good doctor could invent a potion to kill them all.”

  “He is sadly lacking in that skill. He concocts elixirs to aid in healing.”

  Moody laughed, but his laughter was cut short by the sound of an explosion.

  “Someone is certainly alive on that ship but I doubt whether it is a woman,” Harlan growled. “All hands, Mr. Moody.”

  The cannonball whined before it impacted with the topgallant mast. The mast severed in two and the Lyrical shuddered.

  “No competent gunner aimed that shot.” Moody commented with a sneer.

  “Our topgallant is now useless, Mr. Moody.” Harlan glared at his first mate. “Bring her round, so we can blast that ship to kingdom come.” He glanced upward to see the rigging of the Lyrical toppling but then his heart constricted when he saw Lesley standing on the deck directly below the tumbling mast.

  * * * *

  Lesley’s body froze in place, startled by the deafening crack above her. The ship made a sickening lurch and she looked up at the masts. A cloud of white sail fluttered above her. Shouts and whistles swirled in the air from every direction.

  Standing at the rail in shock, she did not know what to do or which way to run. Without warning, a strong arm grabbed her about the waist and hauled her beneath the overhang of the poop deck. The mast crashed against the rail at the spot where she had been standing. The ship listed heavily to that side. Men immediately swarmed to the spot and hacked at the rigging to cut away the fallen mast.

  “Are you dim-witted?” Her rescuer growled.

  She could only shake her head as she stared into Captain Sterford’s face. Though his words sounded harsh, a flicker of relief shone in his blue eyes, but it did not last long.

  “Stay in my cabin.” He released her from his grip, pushed her inside the quarterdeck corridor and shut the door.

  Immediately, another earsplitting explosion rent the air causing the ship to rock back and forth. The sound of splintering wood came from above. She stumbled along the passageway and into the captain’s cabin where she cowered, covering her ears as the blasts from the cannons rang in her head.

  Despite the noise from the detonations, she heard horrible shrieks of agony pierce the air. Cold sweat formed on her forehead, but she wiped it away and fought against her fear. Although she had not succeeded in getting into medical school, she had taken a First Aid course. True, her knowledge had never been put to the test, but she should not stand by while someone lay in desperate need of help. She knew what to do with broken bones, how to stop bleeding, and she knew CPR, too.

  Ignoring the churning in her stomach, she ventured out of the cabin to return to the quarterdeck. However, the door to the deck would not open—at least, not easily. She threw her weight against it but it took several attempts before she managed to push it wide enough to squeeze through.

  When she saw the reason for the blocked entryway, her blood turned to ice water. A dead man lay on the deck. A red river oozed from the massive cavity that had once be
en his chest. She clung to the door for support as she stared at his face. She did not know him, but as his unseeing eyes looked up at the sky she took several deep breaths to calm her nausea.

  While she fought to get a grip on her emotions, she noticed the eerie silence all about her, a strange contrast to the chaos of but a few minutes ago.

  The ship leaned to one side, but sliced quickly through the water—probably tacking, she guessed. Jim had taught her about that. She glanced upward. Heavily armed men hung in the rigging as the sails billowed out, full of the brisk wind.

  She turned her head and gasped. Ahead lay a large ship with several missing masts and a significant number of black holes in the side. As the Lyrical drew alongside, the strange tranquility shattered with a barrage of explosions. The air clouded with fire and smoke.

  The Lyrical rocked. Lesley lost her footing and fell to her knees. Shouts, blood-curdling howls, the clanging of metal against metal, the crack of splintering wood, and the dull thud of bodies falling to the deck horrified her.

  When another hand grabbed hers, she screamed.

  “Come.” The doctor’s face appeared as the smoke cleared for a moment. He drew her back inside to the relative safety of the cabin. “You can help me.”

  She followed him downward into the semi-darkness of the lower decks until they reached an area filled with groaning men and blood. The stench choked her. The dim glow of a few lanterns revealed a grotesque scene where a barrel of body parts sat next to a table. On the table a man lay moaning in agony. The lower half of his arm was mangled. He mumbled as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

  A boy of about fifteen stood on the other side of the table. “He’s been screaming about his Lilly.”

  “Yes, yes. They all do that. Never mind, boy, it’s the pain that has him out of his mind. You hold him steady and we’ll do the best we can for him.” The doctor handed a braided rope to Lesley. “Put this in his mouth when he screams.”

  He picked up a knife dripping with blood. Lesley gulped back the bile in her throat as her skin turned cold and clammy.

  “Don’t you have a tourniquet?” In this situation, her first aid training would not help but if the man needed to lose the limb anyway, blood loss should be prevented.