The Restitution

by M. L. Tyndall

  “Are you hurt?” Kent asked.

  “No. What happened?”

  “Cannon shot. Can you get out of your cell?”

  Cutter plodded around his cell, testing each iron shaft. He gave Kent a daunting look. “No.”

  “Blast!” Kent clutched the rods and rattled them as hard as he could.

  The sea continued its thunderous gush through the hole, pounding on Kent’s nerves and smothering his hopes. Rats screeched as the flood carried through the ship.

  He could not die like this—not imprisoned on his own ship. He could not die without knowing if Isabel and Frederick were safe.

  As he seized the bars once more. Repeated booms roared through the ship, sending a violent tremble through her hull that shook his cell and the wood beneath Kent’s boots.

  Sawkins had fired a broadside.

  At least he was fighting back. Gritting his teeth, Kent flung his saturated hair from his face. He had to get above deck or that madman would kill them all.

  Inhaling a deep breath, Kent dashed into the deluge once again, determined to force himself through the opening in his cell. It was their only hope. Saltwater flooded his nose and ears and thrashed against his body. He thrust his head through the gap, but instantly the shattered iron speared his shoulders and sides. Burning pain shot through him. He backed up and crumpled to the floor of his cell. Gasping for air, he spit saltwater from his mouth. Even if he made it through the hole, he would not live long enough to save Cutter.

  Light spilled down the ladder, illuminating the water swirling at the base.

  “Cap’n!”

  “Over here!” Kent answered.

  The light brightened, and Caleb and Hoornes appeared, sloshing toward him through at least eight inches of water, looks of concern on their faces. Another eight inches and the ship would begin to sink. Hoornes lifted his lantern and nearly slid on a fish flopping in the shallow water in front of Kent’s cell. His rat poked his head from the pocket on Hoornes’s waistcoat. Caleb unlocked Kent’s door and forced it open through the rushing water.

  Bracing himself against the torrent, Kent darted across his cell and through the door. He clasped Hoornes’s hand as Caleb went to release Cutter. “What’s happening?”

  “’Tis Morgan. He attacks us,” Hoornes answered, fear quivering in his voice.

  “Morgan?” Alarm raked over Kent. Morgan was an expert at sea battle. But why was he attacking Sawkins when the deal had been to rendezvous with him?

  Cutter emerged from his cell.

  “Find some sailcloth,” Kent ordered. “We must patch this hole.”

  Hoornes hooked the lantern on a beam and joined the others as they plodded through the water in all directions, opening crates and chests. Soon, armed with mounds of white canvas, they bunched it together and charged the incoming flood. The force of the sea knocked them down, but they quickly got up and rushed it again until finally, after several attempts, they managed to stuff the bulk of the cloth into the hole and reduce the gush to a trickle. Drenched and exhausted, the men backed away while Kent added more sail and made final adjustments to ensure the temporary patch would hold.

  Motioning to the others, he raced for the ladder, frowning at the water sloshing back and forth across the floor. It needed to be pumped out, but that must wait.

  The thunder of a distant cannon bellowed and Kent halted, waiting for another explosion to rip through the ship’s timbers. A scream and the snap of wood told him the shot had landed up on deck.

  “Is Sawkins in command?” Kent asked as he darted up the ladder.

  “Aye, ye might call it that.” Hoornes grabbed the lantern and following behind him.

  “What damage to the ship?”

  “’Sides the hole we just patched? There be another one toward the bow above the waterline and we lost the mizzen topsail, some riggings, and the taffrail be shattered.” Hoornes panted.

  Shouts, curses, and the frenzied thud of boots filled the air.

  Kent growled. That impudent whelp was going to tear his ship to pieces! And how could he stop him? “How many are with us?”

  Another cannon thundered in the distance. Someone yelled, “Fire!” and the ship rumbled as the Restitution’s guns spit their reply. The deck staggered and a rat fell down from above and landed on the steps in front of Kent before scampering away in screeching protest.

  “The slaves be with us, Cap’n.” Caleb’s husky voice sounded from below him. “But I dunno who else we can count on. I can tell ye, though, the crew don’t much like Sawkins.”

  Kent took the stairs two at a time. The sharp scent of gunpowder stung his nose. That would make thirty-four men against over a hundred—not exactly great odds for a mutiny. But then again, Kent knew if he could subdue Sawkins, most of his men would side with Kent.

  The ship lurched to starboard. He grabbed the railing. The hull creaked and groaned under the strain, and the cuts on his hands from the iron rods throbbed against the rough wood. When the vessel righted again, he continued past the berth. A horde of men brandishing weapons emerged from the shadows—the slaves. He nodded to them as they fell in line behind Caleb. Sawkins must have allowed them to arm themselves for the battle.

  At the gun deck, a frenzied throng of pirates sped back and forth across the crowded room. Gun crews hovered over the cannons, loading, priming, and running the mighty guns forward until their muzzles pushed through the gun ports. Men carrying powder buckets scrambled from gun to gun, distributing charges and shot. Sunlight and seawater spilled through a jagged hole in the hull. The shot had taken out one of the guns. Blood stained the deck.

  Logan’s anxious glance landed on Kent. The captain returned his firm gaze, wondering where his master gunner’s loyalty lay, but with only a moment’s hesitation, Logan nodded before resuming his duties.

  “Steady men!” Kent shouted. The gun crew glanced in his direction. Their eyes flickered in surprise but held no defiance. Power surged through him—the power of command. He eyed each man with authority. Some nodded and grinned. Others grunted in approval. “Good to ’ave ye back,” one man yelled. A few “Ayes” shot his way before the men returned to their duties.

  Kent warmed at their loyalty. He was the captain of this ship, and he intended to take it back. From the looks in these men’s eyes, his old crew would give him no quarrel.

  A few steps to the right, Kent shouldered through a door and burst into the gunroom. Scanning the weapons, he chose two pistols, charges, a dagger, and a cutlass and began to strap them on. Cutter followed him in and did the same. They primed and loaded their pistols while Hoornes, Caleb, and the slaves waited outside the door. When Kent emerged, he looked confidently over his men. “Let’s save the ship, gentlemen!” he bellowed, and growls of affirmation sped over the slaves. “Aye, Cap’n,” Hoornes said. “We’re with ye.”

  Kent darted past them and continued up the stairs. Turning a corner just before the companionway, he slammed into a pirate carrying a man over his shoulder. The tangy scent of blood filled the air.

  “Out o’ me way!” the pirate yelled without looking up. Then he raised his gaze. “Ah, Cap’n, didn’t see ye.” His eyes widened. “What’re

  “Never mind, Osborn,” Kent said. “Who’s this?” He gestured toward the pirate flung over Osborn’s shoulder.

  “Zeke.” His gaze held the panicked look of a man in the midst of a battle. “D’ye know where the doc is?”

  Cutter pushed past the crowd and grabbed Zeke’s dangling hand, fingering his wrist.

  “Ah, there ye are, Doc,” Osborn said. “Zeke’s hurt real bad.”

  Lifting Zeke’s bloodied jacket, Cutter studied the wound beneath, then glanced at Kent.

  “Go ahead.” Kent gestured. “Attend to him.”

  “God be with you.” Cutter nodded, then headed down the stairs. “Follow me,” he yelled back to Osborn.

  “Murdock’s hurt pretty bad too, Doc,” Osborn added as he squeezed past Kent. Strands of damp hair dangled
from Zeke’s limp head as it swung like pendulum across Osborn’s back.

  Kent took the rest of the stairs in two giant leaps and burst onto the main deck. A blast of warm air struck him, cooling the sweat that covered his body and tearing the stench of bilge and blood from his nose. He drew his cutlass and surveyed the chaotic scene. Pirates raced across the deck. Several clung to the shrouds and ratlines, adjusting sails and brandishing muskets. Two feet of the larboard railing had been blown into shattered splinters. Some of the men stopped when they saw him, mouths agape, but they quickly continued on their way.

  No resistance so far. Good.

  Kent scanned the horizon and shielded his eyes from the sun, which hung just above the blue divide.

  “He’s comin’ straight fer us agin’, Cap’n,” a pirate yelled from the crosstrees, and Kent turned to see the larboard quarter of Morgan’s ship, the Jamaica Merchant, spewing foamy spray into the air as she veered to port. White canvas swelled above her decks like angry clouds as she caught the wind and made a swift turn. Ten minutes at most. That’s all Kent had.

  “What are yer orders, Cap’n?” Kent heard a man ask.

  He turned to answer him, but saw the question had not been directed to him. Instead, several of his crew thronged together up on the quarterdeck.

  Kent leapt up the ladder, hearing Caleb, Hoornes, and the slaves on his heels, and pushed his way through the crowd. A few brows rose at the sight of him, but most of the men’s gazes were focused on the deck. The stench of sweat, blood, and something else—fear—assailed him.

  Sawkins stood, ashen faced, staring down at where Wolcott and Gibbons attended to Murdock. Blood ran in rivulets from where the pirate lay writhing in agony, his arm ripped off at the elbow. Gibbons cinched a rope around Murdock’s upper arm to quell the bleeding. Sawkins’s eyes locked onto the bloody stump as if it were a gun pointed at his heart.

  The men nudged him. “What are yer orders? Morgan’s nearly on us!”

  Smokes’s gaze found Kent. “Cap’n!” he exclaimed, drawing the attention of the men.

  Sawkins continued to stare blankly at the wounded Murdock.

  Kent took a step forward. “ Wolcott, Gibbons, take Murdock below to the doctor.”

  The two pirates gaped in his direction, then over at Sawkins, whose eyes were still glazed in fear. “Aye, aye,” they said in unison and quickly hoisted the moaning Murdock from the deck. The crowd parted for them as they lumbered away.

  As soon as Murdock had been removed, Sawkins found his voice and the remainder of his sanity. “What is the meaning of this?” He swung his blazing eyes to Kent. He reached for his gun. “How did you get out of the hold?”

  The cocking of two dozen pistols snapped through the air like firecracker. Sawkins’s hand froze on the butt of his weapon. The pirates flung their wide gazes over the armed slaves surrounding them.

  “I’ll be taking back command of my ship, if you please, Brother. Now out of my way.” Kent shouldered the gawking Sawkins aside and marched to the railing. “I see you’ve gotten us into a bit of a mess.” The Jamaica Merchant charged straight for them now, her bowsprit bobbing over the churning swells of the sea. She would be within firing range within minutes. He turned toward his brother.

  “Seize this man at once!” Sawkins stormed with quivering lip. “I’m the captain of this ship.” His frantic eyes darted across the crowd. “Smithy, disarm these men or you’ll answer to me!”

  The crew hesitated and glanced amidships where more pirates had left their posts and congregated below, glaring with interest at the proceedings. Smithy was nowhere to be seen.

  Kent swallowed hard and glanced across his crew. He wouldn’t stand a chance if they decided to remain loyal to Sawkins, but he’d seen no loyalty toward his brother so far.

  The scrape of steel and snap of pistols exposed Kent’s premature supposition.

  Still aiming their weapons forward, the slaves glanced over their shoulders, then faced Kent, wild-eyed. They moved aside. Thirty men pointed weapons in their direction, some on the quarterdeck, some below on the main deck. The rest of the pirates either remained loyal to Kent or didn’t care enough what the outcome was to risk their lives.

  Smithy sauntered forward waving his cutlass through the air. “What’ye plannin’ on doin’, takin’ over the ship with just these darkies to fight with ye?” He chuckled.

  “Why you little lying, thiev—” Kent started toward Smithy but something sharp bit into his skin. He turned to see Sawkins pointing the tip of his knife at Kent’s chest. The malicious grin twisting his lips belied the tremble in his hand. “Having a hard time accepting your defeat, Brother?” Sawkins shook his head, clicking his tongue. “You always were a poor loser. Back to the hold with him.” He gestured with his knife.

  Kent gazed out to sea toward the oncoming ship, then back over his crew. “If you wish to die, side with this man,” he bellowed in his loudest voice. “For he will surely allow Morgan to sink you to the depths of the sea. But if you wish to live, follow me.”

  A blast from Morgan’s cannons sounded, drawing all gazes off the starboard side and reaffirming Kent’s declaration. The shot plummeted into the sea just short of the starboard bow. Water splashed over the railing.

  “Captain Morgan will be on us in seconds,” Kent continued. “Do you want this buffoon to command you in a battle against the best seamen on the Caribbean?”

  The crew’s tremulous gazes swung to the fast approaching enemy. Shaking their heads, they muttered amongst themselves.

  “Long live Captain Carlton!” one pirate trumpeted over the murmuring crowd. A moment’s silence ensued, then another, “Long live Captain Carlton!” followed by several “Ayes!” blaring across the ship. Then one by one, each man drew either blade or pistol and leveled them upon Sawkins and his men.

  With a curse, Smithy sheathed his cutlass and gestured for the others to follow. Groaning, the mutineers housed their weapons.

  Kent exhaled a deep breath and silently thanked God, then gripped Sawkins’s wrist and squeezed it until the knife clanked to the deck.

  Sawkins’s expression transformed from one of brazen ineptitude to sheer terror. He backed against the railing and gripped the hilt of his cutlass as if it were his lifeline.

  Smithy stepped forward from the crowd, raised his chapped lips and giggled nervously. “Good to ’ave ye back, Cap’n.”

  Sawkins grunted and glared at Smithy.

  The weasel-faced first mate shrugged. “Sorry, I goes where fortune dictates.”

  “And fortune dictates you are locked below.” Kent replied, then nodded to Smokes, who stood beside Sawkins. “Escort his lordship and Smithy below, if you please.” He scanned the slaves still surrounding them. “And take all the men who sided with Sawkins below as well.”

  Kent swung his gaze to the horizon where the Jamaica Merchant bore down upon them, all guns blazing. “Bring her about, Mr. Hoornes. Twenty degrees to starboard.” Hoornes sped to the whipstaff, knocking aside the pirate who manned it.

  “Morgan wasn’t supposed to fire upon me.” Sawkins blubbered as two pirates grabbed his pistols, knives, and cutlass and dragged him off. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “’Tis what you get for bargaining with a man as deceitful as you are.” Kent replied, then stormed across the deck. “I want every swivel and culverin manned, armed, and ready to fire,” he roared. “Now!”

  The men darted off, glimmers of hope replacing the despondency previously ingrained on their features.

  “Musketeers. Remain at your posts,” Kent yelled aloft, then lowered his gaze and glared at the Jamaica Merchant. How was he going to defeat a pirate like Morgan? Even with an undamaged ship, it would be a daunting task. Yet he had no choice. He must save his ship, his men, and himself. For if he died, who would rescue Isabel and Frederick? Fear sent his heart crashing against his ribs as he thought of what they must be enduring at the hands of Morris.

  God, help me.

  Chapter Twe
nty-Seven

  Smoldering Dreams

  Isabel climbed out of the wobbling longboat and dipped her feet into the warm water. Sand oozed between her toes as they sank into the soft silt fanning out from the inlet. Holding Frederick with one hand and her shoes in the other, she gave up trying to lift her skirts. Frederick nuzzled against her chest, snug in the sling Hann had fashioned for him. Isabel envied his ability to sleep so peacefully, especially with their future so uncertain. But why wouldn’t he? He was back in his mother’s arms. She knew she should be trusting in God with the same peace and assurance of a child in her father’s embrace, but after the events of the past few days on board the Johnny’s Revenge, Isabel’s faith teetered just like the small boat she stepped from.

  The first rays of the sun spilled over a natural jetty to her left and spread out over the cove, setting the golden sand glittering, the turquoise water sparkling, and the forest beyond glowing in a myriad of greens. Dragging her sodden skirts through the water, she headed toward shore where Captain Morris and two of his men were already trudging onto the beach. They turned and waited for her with piercing gazes.

  Tiny colorful fish darted out of her way with each step. If she weren’t so anxious for Frederick’s safety, she’d be enjoying the beautiful pristine beach and be thankful to finally be on land again after weeks at sea. Even now as she emerged from the water her legs wobbled, still expecting the pitch and plunge of the ship beneath them.

  Frederick whimpered and Isabel glanced up at Morris, his hands balled at his hips, his plumed hat whisking in the breeze. He would not meet her gaze. In fact, this morning was the first time she’d seen her captor since she’d boarded his ship two days ago. Locked below in a cabin so small Isabel could barely take two strides from bunk to door, she’d not seen a soul save for an aged pirate who brought her meals and emptied her chamber pot twice a day.

  Hann had not paid her a single visit, and Isabel had begun to worry for her friend’s safety. But when the girl popped up on deck that morning, unharmed and unfettered, Isabel’s fears were quickly replaced with doubts. With Captain John Morris as her father, no wonder Hann was such good pirate, woman or not. But had she known about the plot between her father and Sawkins? Had she known all along where Frederick was? Isabel’s stomach clenched. Sawkins’s deception was one thing, but surely Isabel was not so bad a judge of character that she’d been duped by Hann as well.