Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

  He brushed his lips over hers, breathing in her scent, hovering, caressing, as he swallowed her up in his embrace. Where he longed to keep her safe and loved forever.

  The sun’s glow crept over his eyelids. The start of a new day. A day he’d dreaded only moments ago. But now looked forward to with great anticipation. He withdrew, happy to see he’d left her breathless.

  “Sail ho!” a man in the yards called.

  Snapping from his daze, Morgan scanned the horizon. He yanked his scope from his belt and pressed it to his eye.

  “Two points to starboard, sir,” the voice confirmed what Morgan’s eyes beheld. The night had betrayed their position.

  Lifting a hand to shield her eyes, Adalia gripped his arm with the other. “Who is it?”

  Morgan’s chest tightened. “My guess? I’d say she’s a privateer. And she’s heading straight for us.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Morgan couldn’t believe his bad luck. Of all the places for a privateer to turn up at the rise of the sun, it had to be straight off his starboard bow. And they had the weather edge as well. The joy of his reunion with Adalia quickly dissipated beneath his rising fear. Lowering the scope, he slapped it against his palm.

  “But we aren’t at war,” Adalia said.

  “Not yet. But that won’t stop the British from boarding our ships and stealing our men.”

  “What are we to do?” He could hear the fear in Adalia’s voice. Pasting on what he hoped was an unruffled expression, he touched her elbow and ushered her to the main deck. “I need to talk to the captain.”

  “Orders, sir?” the night watchman asked from the quarterdeck, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

  “Sound the alert, Mr. Granger, if you please. All hands on deck. Up tops and stays. Set all canvas to the wind!”

  Morgan glanced over his shoulder at the oncoming predator, then up at the quartermaster standing steadfast at the wheel. “Adjust heading two degrees south by southwest, Mr. Hanson. Put as much distance between us and them, gentlemen!”

  “Ayes” rang from both men as Morgan led Adalia below. He intended to escort her to her cabin, get her inside where it was safe, but his frenzied mind drove him straight to the captain’s cabin. The clanging of the bell vibrated through the bulkheads as Morgan barreled inside, Adalia on his heels.

  Mrs. Wallace glanced up from her seat by the captain’s bed. The lines of her face twisted in worry.

  Adalia rushed to her side. “What is it?”

  “I’m afraid he’s grown worse, miss. Woke me up with his groaning just a few minutes ago.”

  Adalia laid the back of her hand on the captain’s cheeks and faced Morgan. He knew before she opened her mouth that the captain was in no condition to command a ship in battle. He appeared in no condition to even rise from his cot.

  Mrs. Wallace wrung water from a cloth and dabbed it over the captain’s flushed skin. “His fever has returned.”

  Terror held Morgan in place, threatening to strangle him, squeezing the breath from his lungs. It was one thing to command a ship through peaceful waters, or even to escape a pursuing frigate under Captain Bristo’s watchful eye.

  But quite another to engage a British privateer by himself.

  Footsteps thundered on the deckhead. Shouts and curses filled the air above them. The men needed a leader. And they needed one fast.

  Adalia looked his way, the fear in her eyes increasing when she saw his face. “What is it, Morgan?”

  “Nothing.” He found his voice and coughed. He would not reveal his terror to these women. He would not tell them of his inhibitions, his lack of experience, nor that the blood seemed to have escaped his legs. Sails rumbled as they caught the wind and the brig jerked, jarring those numb legs. He caught Adalia before she fell. Her dark velvet eyes skittered between his. “What will they do if they capture us?”

  “Steal our money, our ship, and most likely force us to serve at the pleasure of His Royal Majesty’s Navy.”

  Morgan regretted speaking the truth so openly, especially when terror overtook Adalia’s face.

  “And what of us women?” she asked.

  Instead of answering her, instead of voicing his deepest fears, he swallowed her up in his arms. “I won’t let them touch you.” He nodded toward Mrs. Wallace, whose pudgy face had gone white. “Either of you.”

  He forced Adalia back. “Take care of the captain. And stay below.” Then swerving about, he started to leave.

  “You can do this, Morgan.” Her confident tone turned him around. “I’ve seen your skill in command, the way the men look up to you.”

  He brushed his thumb over her cheek. How did the woman always know what to say?

  “Captain!” Mr. Booker charged into the room. His frenzied gaze took in the captain’s prostrate form before his eyes shifted to Morgan.

  “They’re gaining, sir.”

  Morgan swallowed and faced Adalia. “Stay here.” Then shoving his hat atop his head, he marched from the cabin, firing orders to the second mate. “Extinguish the galley fire; sand the top decks; run up the powder cartridges from the magazine; have the men arm themselves, pistols, swords, and boarding axes. Ah, and send the sharpshooters to the tops.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n. I mean, Mr. Morgan, sir.”

  The slip of tongue sent a sliver of confidence through Morgan as he stormed onto the main deck. A confidence that quickly melted beneath the torrent of self-doubt that assailed him from within. Trying to shake the voices off, he made his way to the quarterdeck, gave the helmsman a nod of assurance, and turned to face the enemy.

  Worthless miserable mongrels! Morgan’s father had shouted at his two young sons. Why, I begin to wonder if you are my own flesh and blood. At five years of age, that was the first time Morgan had been called worthless. A title he grew quite accustomed to in the years to follow. Insulting tirades from his father became a family ritual, much like holiday events, only more frequent and without the joy. Eventually, Morgan grew numb to them. Or had he?

  The crew swarmed over the deck, arming themselves and manning the carronades. Sails thundered above, drawing Morgan’s gaze to the sharpshooters ready to fire and the topmen adjusting canvas. The brig rose and plunged through the sea, sending foamy squalls over her bow.

  A group of sailors gathered on the main deck, their anxious eyes locked on Morgan, awaiting his command. Beyond the stern, the privateer flew through the sea like a blade through pudding, cutting a swath of whipped cream. The Union Jack taunted him from the gaff.

  God, help me. The silent prayer spun through his mind as his gaze landed back on his crew. He could not let them down. He could not let his captain down. He could not let Adalia down.

  A jet of orange flame caught the corner of his eye, followed by the boom of a cannon.

  “All hands, down!” Morgan yelled.

  Adalia dropped to her knees before the captain’s bed and took his hand in hers. His skin felt as hot as the bed warmer Joy had often slipped beneath Adalia’s covers on cold nights. Pressing his hand to her forehead, she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for his recovery.

  Mrs. Wallace returned with another pitcher of water and patted Adalia on the back. “That’s a good girl. Praying is about all we can do right now.”

  Sweat lined the captain’s face and slid onto his pillow. He moaned and his eyelids fluttered.

  “I wish I had my herbs—my cassia and nutmeg.”

  The deck jerked to port, and Mrs. Wallace slid back onto her chair as the mad dash of seawater against the hull grew louder. “Is there something else we could do for him?”

  Adalia shook her head and stood. “No. When he wakes, we must get him to drink as much water as we can. Besides that, try to keep him cool.”

  A thunderous roar boomed in the distance, and Adalia’s wide eyes met Mrs. Wallace’s. The older woman threw a hand to her throat. “Good Lord, help us all!”

  Adalia didn’t have to ask to know they’d been fired upon. Fear
for Morgan, for the crew, sent her rushing for the door. “I must go see what is happening. Will you watch the captain?”

  “Of course but you’re not supposed—” Mrs. Wallace’s admonition was muffled beneath the shouts and thumping of feet above as Adalia darted down the hallway and up the companionway ladder onto the main deck. Instantly, the ship angled to starboard, sending her tumbling to the railing. She gripped the moist wood until her fingers ached and the deck leveled. Sailors flashed past her in dizzying directions across the decks, some scrambling aloft, others carrying powder and shot from below, while others dumped sand over the wooden planks.

  “We’ll race to get windward of her and cut across her bow,” Morgan’s voice shot through the rush of wind that swirled around Adalia’s ears. “At my command, prepare to tack aweather.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Mr. Booker, the second mate, blared orders to a man on the main deck, who repeated them aloft to the topmen. Adalia wondered how they could hear so high above the deck with all the blustering wind. Yet they seemed to understand, for they moved about their tasks.

  Another roar pummeled the sky. Adalia crouched, covered her eyes, and waited to be blown to oblivion.

  “Just a warnin’ shot, miss.” A voice as rough as rope brought her an odd comfort.

  Adalia opened her eyes to see Mr. Griggs, if she remembered his name, standing before her. Scraggly hair that looked as though it hadn’t been washed in years flailed like thick twine beneath his hat. He scratched his prickly chin and gave her a look of reprimand. “Mr. Morgan insists ye go below, miss. Fer yer own safety.”

  But Adalia didn’t want to go below. She was tired of being locked up against her will. “Tell me the truth, Mr. Griggs, am I any safer below?”

  He flattened his lips with a snort. “At the moment, no, miss. But should we get close enough to fire our muskets—”

  “If that happens, I promise I will oblige.” At least above deck Adalia could see the incoming shots. Would have a few seconds to prepare—to say a prayer for herself and the crew. Below, she could be blown to bits without warning.

  Instead of forcing her to obey, Mr. Griggs merely took a position beside her at the railing. Her curious stare caused him to add, “Mr. Morgan thought ye’d be sayin’ that, so he asked me to keep an eye out fer ye.”

  Despite the harrowing circumstances, Adalia couldn’t help but smile.

  A smile that quickly dissolved beneath another resounding boom!

  “Helm hard a port! Raise tacks and sheets!” Morgan commanded.

  “Ye might be wantin’ to hang on, miss,” Mr. Griggs warned, though he made no move to do so himself.

  Adalia gripped the railing again as the ship yawed widely to larboard. Yards and blocks creaked, and the eerie chime of strained lines filled the air, accentuated by the gush of seawater over the bulwarks. Her arms and legs began to ache with the sheer effort of trying to stay upright and not tumble across the deck, or worse, fall over the railing into the sea.

  As soon as the ship leveled, Morgan leapt onto the main deck. “Bear off; haul your braces; ease sheets; starboard guns standby!” He bellowed the orders with such authority that if Adalia had known how to comply she would have dashed off to do his bidding.

  Mr. Griggs eased her out of the way as gunners, stripped to their waist, with cloth stuffed in their ears, darted to the carronades lining the starboard railing. Sails thundered in a mad search for wind, then snapped when their appetites were satiated, jerking the ship once again.

  Morgan glanced her way in passing as he plucked out his long glass. With loose hair blowing behind him and glinting in the sunlight, he braced his boots on the deck and studied the oncoming enemy. His jaw was determined steel, his shoulders a span of confidence as though he’d been fighting sea battles for years.

  Her admiration for the pampered aristocrat rose. She’d never dreamed that behind that charming, polished facade lurked a man of such courage, skill, and valor.

  She never dreamed she’d be in the midst of a sea battle either. Minutes ticked away like hours, each one drawing the ships closer together. A metallic taste filled her mouth. She didn’t wish to die. She and Morgan had just declared their love. On their return to Charleston, they were to begin courting.

  It would be so unfair to die now!

  Boom! Boom! The air reverberated in a nightmarish detonation. Something heavy zipped past Adalia’s ears with a ghostly whine. A splash told her it landed in the sea. But the sound of crunching, snapping wood and the eerie rip of canvas told her that damage had been done. She opened her eyes to find that one of the shots had punched the outer jib, leaving a rugged hole in the sail.

  “Fire as you bear!” Morgan shouted and the gunners went to work. Moments later the simultaneous explosion of the ship’s carronades staggered the brig from stem to stern. Mr. Griggs put an arm around Adalia—an arm she was thankful for since Morgan’s next commands sent the ship veering to starboard. The deck vaulted upward. She clung to the railing with one hand and Mr. Griggs with the other. Gray smoke enveloped her. It stung her nose and stole the breath from her lungs. Coughing, she shrank against the bulkhead. Why had she decided to stay above deck?

  Minutes later, the clearing soot revealed the privateer, her top foremast sail flapping idly in the wind. Gray smoke poured from a rent in her hull above the water line. Shifting her sails, she tacked about.

  Was she leaving? Adalia allowed hope to rise. Yet after nearly an hour of maneuvering, in which Morgan matched move for move with his enemy, the privateer charged forward.

  Morgan did the same.

  Adalia’s legs trembled. From standing on the heaving deck so long or from fear, she didn’t know.

  “Morgan, why are you heading straight for them?” Mr. Booker exclaimed. His harried tone caused some sailors to stop what they were doing and stare off the bow. They wiped sweat from their foreheads, leaving smudges of soot that made their eyes look like full moons against a dark sky.

  “Because they won’t expect it,” came Morgan’s confident reply.

  “They’re readying their larboard battery! That’s the end of us,” Mr. Booker shouted, dashing to the railing much faster than his corpulent frame seemed to allow. He cast a pleading glance over his shoulder at Morgan.

  “Wait,” Morgan said. A simple command, absent the urgency and fear that seemed to consume the crew. Instead, Morgan crossed his arms over his chest and braced his feet on the deck as the Seawolf flew across the water, rising and plunging through the rollers, sending spray over the nervous sailors.

  “What are your orders?” Mr. Booker turned and gripped the hilt of his sword as if he would challenge Morgan there and then.

  “Aye, what are we doin’, Morgan? Have you gone mad?” the quartermaster yelled from his post at the wheel.

  “Prepare the starboard guns, Mr. Booker. Fire on my order.” Only a slight twitch in Morgan’s jaw gave Adalia any indication of apprehension.

  “They’ll finish us off afore we have a chance.”

  Morgan flinched then stared at the second mate. “Do as I say,” he barked.

  Adalia swallowed and bowed her head. Oh, why hadn’t she thought to pray before? What was wrong with her? “Father, please save us! Please give Morgan wisdom to defeat our enemy.”

  As if in answer, yellow flames speared out from the privateer. The sky bellowed like a giant demanding entrance from another world. Adalia slunk to the deck and cringed. A volcano of fire and metal burst upon them. The ship staggered beneath the blow.

  Morgan crouched as a scream pierced the air. Wood shattered, showering him with splinters. The smell of gunpowder and blood assailed him. A mixture of fear, purpose, and determination forced him to his feet. Forced him to scan the deck and see how badly they’d been hit. Had some of the crew been killed? Pain lanced through him, and he glanced down. A spike of wood protruded from his side. Yanking it out, he pressed a hand over the puddle of warm blood. Just a flesh wound. Darting to the railing, he peered toward the pr
ivateer. Her topmasts poked through a cloud of billowing gray smoke. She had taken the bait, become overconfident. And now she was blind.

  But only for a moment.

  “Helm hard a lee!” he shouted. The brig veered to port, presenting all her guns.

  “Fire!”

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! The shots echoed across the sky. Then all went silent. Only the rustle of water and dash of wind sounded as the Seawolf finished her tack and brought the privateer up on her hind quarter.

  Leaping on the quarterdeck, Morgan marched to the stern, heart in his throat. Either his plan worked or he had sealed the fate of the Seawolf and all on board.

  The mist cleared. He scanned the enemy ship. He couldn’t see her larboard side. But by the way the sailors were scampering across the deck and leaping below in a frenzy, he guessed his guns had hit their mark. Then in a stroke of providence, their top foremast cracked and toppled over like a felled tree, bringing her rigging and sails with it. Morgan smiled. His crew cheered. In moments, the privateer veered away, bidding them farewell with an impotent shot that splashed into the sea just short of the Seawolf‘s stern.