The Restitution

by M. L. Tyndall

  Kent’s deep voice howled over the deck, eliciting growls and cheers from the pirates. The sounds of which made Isabel fear for the sloop and her captive passengers.

  Hann grew quiet, and Isabel followed her gaze to Cutter, standing next to Kent. “He’s a very wise and kind man.”

  Red blossomed on Hann’s tanned cheeks, and she looked down. “Like no other I’ve met.”

  Isabel’s eyes shifted to Kent as the two men talked, noting his imposing stance, his striking frame, and the courage and confidence that surrounded his every move.

  “But it escapes me what you see in captain.” Hann spat with contempt.

  “What do you mean? I see nothing,” Isabel snapped, a sudden warmth rising up her neck. “I’m just intrigued at how he commands the ship.”

  “Of course.” Hann crinkled her nose.

  Sawkins lumbered onto the deck from the hatch, brushing a speck of dirt from his velvet doublet. His pale hair reflected the sun with a shimmer. He smiled her way, and Isabel nodded in return. All the horrid things Kent had said about him instantly sailed through her thoughts. How could such a finely chiseled face harbor the mind of a deviant scoundrel?

  Hann snorted when she saw him.

  “Don’t be too hard on him, Hann. He meant no insult to Cutter.”

  “I wonder.”

  The Restitution swooped down a surging roller. Kent steadied his gaze upon his fleeing prey. Under a full crowd of sail, the sloop made a good run for it, but she sat low in the water. Although her crew tossed crates and barrels overboard to lighten their load, their efforts would be futile. Hot wind swarmed over him, igniting the excitement of the chase. He braced his boots as the ship thrust boldly into the next swell, sending a spray of foam exploding over the bow. He shook it from his hair.

  With Isabel aboard, he’d hoped to avoid attacking any ships, but he would certainly put her in more danger should he not keep his voracious crew appeased. He saw the way some of them looked at her. With him out of the way, they wouldn’t hesitate to pass her among them like a common trollop.

  Hann stood next to her on the foredeck, grinning like a pirate who’d just found treasure. The lad leaned in to whisper something in Isabel’s ear, and she giggled. Jealousy oozed green in Kent’s heart. Must the woman lavish her affections on every man on board—every man except him?

  Sawkins slunk up next to him. “What is the meaning of this, Captain?”

  “Did we disturb your sleep, your lordship?”

  “Yes, in truth, you did.” As Sawkins studied the sloop, the Restitution crested a massive wave, then canted, nearly tumbling him to the deck. “Egad, do you plan to engage her?”

  “That I d—”

  The crackle of a hundred whips filled the air, and a rain of deadly small shot blasted over them. Ducking, Kent peered over the larboard railing to see a cloud of gray smoke hovering over the sloop’s swivel gun.

  “I would arm myself if I were you,” Kent said before swerving to address his crew. “Clear the deck for battle. Logan, prepare the larboard battery.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” The master gunner disappeared below.

  “Caleb,” Kent yelled across the deck. “Distribute the boarding axes.” The black man nodded and sped off. Kent had high hopes for Caleb. He’d shown a keen intellect and unusual courage, but he had to overcome the subservient mentality that had been drilled into him. With enough confidence, Caleb would make a far better first mate than Smithy, who Kent wasn’t sure he could trust anymore.

  Kent’s eyes locked with Isabel’s. Was that fear in their green depths? Her delicate brow wrinkled, and she did not glance away as she usually did when their eyes met. He hated to pull his gaze away, but he had a crew to lead and a ship to plunder. Fear hooked his heart. Not fear for him, or his crew, but fear that Isabel would be injured.

  He started toward her. “Lady Ashton, get below at once!”

  With a slight upturn of her dainty nose, she squared her shoulders and glanced away.

  “Osborn.” Kent turned to his bosun, infuriated at her insolence. “Escort Lady Ashton to her cabin.”

  “But Cap’n, we’re almost in range.”

  “Do it now, man!”

  With a snarl, Osborn dashed up the foredeck ladder.

  Kent snapped his gaze back to the sloop. Close-hauled, the Restitution had come abreast of her starboard beam. In minutes, and with one swift turn to port, they would overtake her.

  “Sparks, lead your musketeers to the tops,” Kent roared to his sharpshooter. The brawny lad with the eye patch replied with an “aye”, then led his men aloft. Kent shook his head. The boy had only one eye and an uncontrollable twitch in his right arm, but he could hit a cockroach square betwixt the eyes at one hundred yards.

  Osborn returned, and one glance over the ship assured Kent Isabel was below. “Fire when ready, Smithy.”

  “Fire!” Smithy yelled down the main hatch, and in seconds the ship rumbled with the blast of her broadside. A violent shudder swept her from stem to stern, testing each creaking timber. Choking plumes of smoke drifted over the deck. Coughing, Kent peered through the acrid fog toward their enemy.

  Musket and pistol shot cracked the air. The pirates drew their swords and knives and growled like starving beasts scenting prey. Kent scanned the deck for Sawkins. He was nowhere to be seen.

  The sound of splitting wood drew his attention back to the sloop, visible now through the clearing smoke. Her foremast toppled in shattered fragments of spiked oak, the yards and shrouds hanging in a snarled web on the deck. One of the fourteen-pounders had crushed her larboard timbers just above the water line. A ghostly silence yawned across her deck as a white flag rose on her mainmast. Not a living soul was in sight.

  Kent studied his salivating crew, thankful the other ship had given up so quickly. “Hoornes, put the helm down and bring us alongside her bow. Men, prepare to board. Grapnels ready.”

  Positioning themselves, the men swung the iron claws over their heads. With a quick simultaneous release, the grapnels flew through the air and clanked into the deck of the sloop. Grunting, the men wrenched the two ships together. Their hulls thudded as the pirates lashed them in place.

  Drawing his sword, Kent leapt onto the bulwarks. “To the fight!” He pounded over the railing and stomped onto the sloop’s main deck. Shouts and curses cut though the air as the pirates scaled the bulwarks and poured into the vessel like rats.

  Where was the usual thrill of battle that always coursed through Kent’s blood? Perhaps it was Isabel’s presence and his concern for her wellbeing that stifled his lust for conquest. His gaze took in the sloop from prow to stern. Empty.

  Smithy came up beside him. “They’ve gone to closed quarters, Cap’n.”

  “So be it.” Kent marched to the center of the ship. “Men,” he roared, drawing the attention of his crew. “Boarding axes to the forecastle bulkheads and hatch combings. Beware of the loopholes, gentlemen! Wolcott, Hoornes.” He faced two of his men standing nearby. “Chop up that foremast and use it to ram the roundhouse.”

  Hoornes kissed his rat and tossed him into his coat pocket before following Wolcott.

  “Smokes.” Kent located the pirate with the blackened face and wild eyes. An expert at explosives, the man’s attire hung in singed, black shreds. Apparently, he’d tested his inventions out on himself more than once. “Go fetch some of your grenades, if you please.”

  The men scrambled to do his bidding, bloodlust glinting in their eyes. Soon, hacks and chops and thunderous booms vibrated over the ship as the pirates slashed and pounded their way through the barricaded doors. Musket and pistol shots bombarded them through loopholes in the bulkheads, sending the men diving across the deck. With luck, Kent would suffer no casualties today.

  A piercing scream—Kent spun to see Dorsey tumble to the deck, clutching his bloodied stomach. A jet of gray smoke spewed from a loophole on the main hatch combing.

  “Get the doctor,” Kent shouted, though he knew from the
location of the wound, Dorsey would be dead within minutes. Blood and smoke bit Kent’s nose as disgust trampled his gut. He’d seen plenty of death. Why should the sight disturb him now?

  A crunching thud, the splintering of wood, and the victorious huzzahs blaring from a band of Kent’s men at the forecastle drew his attention. He stormed toward them. Weaving his way through the crowd, he reached the wooden door, now a jumble of shards and splinters at his feet. He stepped through it, followed by his men. The stench of sweat and fear assaulted him.

  The Spanish sailors backed into the gloomy shadows of the forecastle, prodded by the tips of cutlasses and barrels of muskets leveled upon their chests. A large explosion from the aft shook the ship, and one by one they tossed their weapons to the floor and raised their hands.

  Kent strode forward. “Where is your captain?”

  A dozen pairs of nervous eyes stared at him from within shaking heads. From their attire and the terror skipping across their gazes, Kent knew they were naught but common sailors.

  “Su capitán!”

  A tall man with a pointed black beard and twisted mustache plowed through the crowd and stepped forward. “Capitán Nicklas Manuel Estiban, at your service.” He bowed.

  “Do you surrender, sir, or do you require more Spanish blood?”

  Adjusting the Castilian lace that trimmed his Spanish suit, the capitán peered down his nose at Kent. Then drawing his saber from its scabbard, he extended its hilt.

  Kent accepted it with a bow and handed it to one of his men.

  “Caleb.” Kent turned toward the black man. “Take Murdock. Go below and free the slaves.”

  “What ’bout the treasure?” Smithy whined.

  “See to the slaves first, then seek your treasure.”

  Smithy snorted.

  Facing the captain again, Kent grinned. “Now, Captain, I beg you to suffer our presence for but a short while longer. Then, I assure you, we will be on our way.”

  “Do you not care for treasure, Doctor?” Isabel had not stayed long in her cabin—would not be dismissed like a common servant. As soon as she’d felt the ships collide and heard the pirates thundering over to the sloop, she’d come on deck and inched her way closer to the larboard railing where Cutter stood, pipe in hand.

  “It holds no value to me. I was once a wealthy man.” Cutter gave her a wary look. “Ah yes, I see the surprise in your eyes. But ’tis true. Wealth brought me no happiness then. Why should it now?”

  Isabel cocked her head and examined him. She’d never heard of anyone who did not aspire to wealth, save Hann who’d left all she’d had to become a pirate. What a strange breed of people. Yet as she studied the greed dripping from the pirates’ faces as they blasted their way into the hold of their enemy’s ship, she had to admit riches had an ill effect on some.

  It is not the money itself, but the place it holds in one’s heart, beloved.

  The revelation blossomed from deep within her, and she turned to relay it to Cutter but found his intense gaze locked upon Hann. The girl, looking like the fierce rogue she pretended to be, hefted the end of a thick pole held by three other pirates and bashed it into the door of the round-house with an ear-crunching thump. Isabel longed to tell him that the affection now gleaming from his eyes was not misplaced as he indeed must be thinking, but she had promised Hann to keep her secret.

  Lord Sawkins appeared at her side, looking rather distraught. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are unharmed, milady.”

  A sharp crack split the air, followed by a scream. Isabel’s heart jumped as her gaze shot to one of the pirates who’d dropped to the deck of the sloop.

  “Doctor!” A harrowing shout roared in their direction.

  With an anxious glance, Cutter darted over the bulwarks.

  Isabel said a quick prayer for the injured man and glanced at Sawkins. “I did not see you with the rest of the men?”

  Looking bored, Sawkins waved a hand through the smoky air. “I do not get involved with these trifling pirate squabbles. I warned the captain against it, for it will take time away from finding your son. But you know pirates and their lust for treasure. He would not relent.”

  Isabel pursed her lips and ran a hand over the sudden churning in her stomach. The captain had said he preferred not to attack the sloop. She gazed at Sawkins as he pressed a strand of his blond hair behind his ear and grinned. Did he truly care for her and her son? If so, since he did not participate in the fight, why had he not sought her out to offer his protection?

  Dozens of dark-skinned, half-naked, emaciated men clambered over the railings onto the Restitution. Purple and red scars circled their wrists and ankles, and thin bloodied strips marred their backs. Squinting in the bright sun, they scanned their new surroundings with eyes devoid of hope and life. Isabel’s heart fell into a deep sorrow.

  Drawing a handkerchief from the pocket of his doublet, Sawkins held it to his nose. “What on earth compels the captain to bring these savages on board?”

  “They are slaves, milord.” Isabel’s nerves pricked with indignation even as the rancid smell made her eyes water. “No doubt they have been held captive in the bilge of that ship for God knows how long. I daresay you would not fare so well.”

  “Come now, ’tis what they were bred for, as well you know. Some men must serve. It is their lot in life and they enjoy it.”

  Frowning, Isabel studied Sawkins. Nearly the exact words had been touted by her father. Hadn’t she believed them as well? Yet why did they sound so appalling to her now? She thought of her time at Port Royal. A picture of sweet, beautiful Marlie formed in her mind. The young slave girl had been kinder to Isabel than most of her highborn friends. Marlie’s words drifted through Isabel’s mind, stinging her conscience: God loves all people just the same. We are all equal in His sight. Isabel gazed back at the tortured slaves. “It would appear, milord, that these men find no pleasure in their current lot.”

  Sawkins pursed his lips. “I agree, milady. To starve and abuse them is inhumane.”

  Insincerity tainted his pretentious tone, and Isabel gave a sarcastic snort.

  When the pirates had nearly completed the plundering of the sloop, several climbed back over the railings of the Restitution, arms bursting with glittering trinkets, chortling with glee. Straining, four of them hoisted an intricately carved chest over the bulwarks. Bottles of rum were passed amongst the celebrating vandals.

  Searching the crowd, Isabel found Kent speaking to a pirate on the sloop. He turned and scaled the bulwarks effortlessly, landing on the deck of the Restitution. With a commanding air, he ordered some of the crew to escort the slaves below and find places for them to sleep. His hair had escaped the cavalier tie and blew around him in a wild dance, making him appear even more threatening. She could not pull her gaze from him.

  Something flickered in the corner of her eye. A stick of a man, dressed only in frayed breeches, dragged himself over to Isabel and knelt at her feet. He clasped his hands together and gazed up at her with pleading eyes. The stench of sweat and human excrement assailed her.

  “Food, ma’am?”

  Isabel’s eyes pooled with tears as she gazed at the gaunt man. He swayed and clutched her gown to keep from falling. She flinched at his sudden forwardness. But then shame flooded her. Hoping Sawkins had a morsel to give the man, she glanced his way but found his eyes blazed with fire.

  He plucked a knife from his belt and aimed it at the man’s bare chest. “How dare you touch a lady, slave!” Spit flew from his angry lips.

  The tip of the blade pierced the man’s flesh. Blood trickled from the wound. The slave froze, the whites of his eyes stark against his dark skin.

  Grabbing Lord Sawkins’s arm, Isabel wrestled to pull him away. “He wasn’t hurting me. He only wanted something to eat.” But Sawkins wouldn’t budge, nor did he appear to hear her.

  He brushed Isabel aside and kept his blade in place.

  Boots pounded over the deck, and the tip of a cutlass pre
ssed on Sawkins’ chest.

  Isabel glanced up to see Kent’s narrowed eyes fixed upon Sawkins. She looked back at the slave. A tremble ran through him. Lord, please do not let Sawkins hurt this man.

  Slowly, Sawkins raised his gaze to meet Kent’s, a sneer cowering on his lips. Several pirates stopped what they were doing and gathered around.

  “Stand off,” Kent ordered.

  “Or what?” Sawkins grinned. “Are you going to kill me, brother?”

  Brother? Shock jolted through Isabel. Her confused gaze drifted between them.

  A flurry of angry Spanish words blared from the sloop, tugging all eyes away from Kent and Sawkins and onto a sailor storming across the deck of the enemy ship. Crazed, he waved two pistols in the air and continued his tirade, threatening them with his unknown words and the fury shooting from his eyes.

  Crack! The pistol fired.

  Warmth stabbed Isabel’s shoulder. She glanced down to see a burgeoning circle of red staining her gown.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Old Wounds and New Wounds

  Spikes of pain drove into Isabel’s consciousness. She raised a hand to her brow, praying it would stop.

  “She’s awake, Captain.”

  Isabel didn’t want to open her eyes, afraid the pain would only increase if she did. Something poked her shoulder—something hot and sharp. She cried out.

  Boot steps scuffed toward her. With difficulty, she pried open her heavy lids and peered around her. Kent leaned toward her on the left, concern tightening his handsome face, while Cutter ardently searched through a black satchel on her right. Hann grinned at her from the foot of the bed.

  “What happened?” Her gaze took in the familiar details of her cabin. Afternoon sunlight penetrated the dirty window and set floating dust particles aglitter. Isabel searched her memories. The last thing she recalled was Sawkins attacking the poor starving slave. But wait, something else tried to shove its way through her jumbled thoughts.

  “Never fear, milady. ’Tis but a flesh wound. Ah.” Cutter withdrew a vial from his bag and turned toward Isabel. “The pistol shot went clean through.”