“We’ve no time to waste,” said Teakle, nursing his eye.
“I should have had the Black Devil whipped to death when he was a slave under my thumb. But I think this plan is better. It will eat at him like acid, his wife vanishing with no trace of her footsteps. Le Trompeur will be getting a bigger prize. The wife of the Black Devil.”
Claire froze. The desperate reality of her situation came clear. She fought like a demon. She fell and he yanked her to her feet.
“It is useless to fight my dear. You will suffer at the hands of the French pirate.” He shoved her through dense foliage. Jarvis navigated a route far from the village and notice of Devon’s men. “I relish the fact that he is not kind to women. With great pleasure, I can get even with the Black Devil, and have the satisfaction of trumping my dead brother.”
On the beach, the black spines of the Mer Un Serpent lay silhouetted against a brilliant sky. She was picked up and tossed into a waiting boat. The rapid thrust of oars lapped against the water.
Le Trompeur was the first to greet her. “Mademoiselle, an honor to see you, again.”
Like a beached whale, Jarvis hefted his body on the deck eager to tell Le Trompeur his good fortune. “She is not Mademoiselle. She is the Black Devil’s wife.”
“His wife?”
The pirate’s pupils dilated enough for Claire to glimpse a flicker of insecurity. He circled her. “Untie Madame Blackmon’s hands.”
“He will hunt you down for taking me.”
He tapped a fingernail beneath her chin. “His ship remains in dry-dock. I will be days away before he is finished with repairs.”
“Devon will find you. This I promise.”
Le Trompeur raised his eyebrows. “So much boldness. I do not think you are as confident as you pretend. As I covet gold, I covet the wife of the Black Devil. You will perform for me the same as you do for him.”
“I will not let you touch me.”
He coiled a mass of her hair tight to his fingers and yanked her face inches before his own. “We are at an impasse. I do remember your dangerous feet. A lesson must be learned. I want you begging.” He jerked his head to his men. “Tie her to the mast. No water or food comes to her mouth except by my hand.”
Ropes were bound around her. The crew snickered. Jarvis and Teakle jeered. The sails were let out. A brisk breeze propelled them out to sea. Abandoned to the horrors of Le Trompeur, her vision blurred as the shore of Paradise grew distant, the tree line shrunk to a stripe of green until the island disappeared into an ocean of blue. If only she could see Devon one more time.
Devon sprinted from the shipyard. Claire was to meet him at noon. She was never late. No one was at the house. He checked the lagoon. Flawed reasoning suggested she visited with Jenny and had forgotten the time. Bloodsmythe and Cookie walked hand and hand toward him. “Have you seen Claire?”
Cookie shrugged. “This morning I gave her victuals to deliver to her uncle and Sir Teakle. I have not seen her since.”
His legs broke out into a run. Bloodsmythe shouted after him. Why didn’t he throw Jarvis and Teakle overboard? He reached the makeshift jail to find the door banging open and left unguarded. He would skewer Johnnie for abandoning his post. A whimper to the rear of the jail raised the hackles on his neck. Johnnie lay trussed like a sausage, a lump the size of a hen’s egg bulged on his forehead. He drew a knife from his belt and cut the boy’s gag and binds.
“Where is she?”
“Jarvis and Teakle are trading her for their freedom by selling her to Le Trompeur. They left hours ago.”
His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. The great danger Claire found herself was born a result of his negligence. No chance Le Trompeur was still around. He would have left as soon as he had her. Images of what that French son of a bitch would do to Claire flashed through his mind. He raced to the boatyard. “Get the Sea Scorpion and Golden Gull ready to sail. Now.”
Dooley turned to see if he’d lost his senses. The Sea Scorpion was hauled up on rollers on the beach ready to be tarred.
Johnnie pulled up short and placed his hands on his knees, his head bowed in gulping breaths. “There’s more, Captain Blackmon. Jarvis told Claire how he hated his brother and paid to have her family killed to get the family’s wealth.”
Bloodsmythe huffed beside him and Cookie clucked. “My dear baby. I knew Jarvis was not to be trusted. I never conceived he murdered Claire’s parents.”
Dooley shook his head. “Six days before we’re ready, sir.”
“Le Trompeur has my wife! Every single man must work around the clock.”
Cookie flapped to the keel of the boat and picked up a bucket of hot tar. “I can wield a brush as well as anyone. We have to save Claire.”
For two days she had baked in the torrid endless sun. Her lips were parched and her skin prickled where burned. Her hair a mass of knots flew about her face and shoulders. She slumped against the ropes and dozed. Sleep was impossible, the discomfort of standing up. At night, she shivered from the wind. Once per day, Le Trompeur gave her water and vulgar suggestions.
The pirates darted lewd glances. They stayed away. Did they fear the Black Devil?
Ropes were untied and she sagged to the deck. Coarse hands lifted her to a small room and bolt slid into place. Would this be where he would rape her? Too weary to think, she lay on the cot thankful from the respite from the sun and sank into a deep sleep. Claire slammed to the floor. The floor pitched high again then dropped into a deep trench. The crack of lightening and roll of thunder and men screaming curses belted above her head. Claire crawled onto the cot and clung for hours. Her arms ached. Would they survive the storm? Water seeped across the floor. Were they sinking? Was this to be her watery grave?
Shaken awake Claire was dragged from darkness up on to a sun splashed deck to be tied to the mast. If only she had a drink of water. Her practical nature had taken over. She refused to wallow in self-pity. That was how one survived the unthinkable. Half way through the day a shadow loomed. Fish oil permeated the air.
“Madame Blackmon?” Le Trompeur offered her a flagon.
Claire raised her head and drank. The flagon lifted. “More,” she pleaded.
“Have you learned to beg?”
“Never will I bend to you,” she rasped.
A cannon blast hit the air. Le Trompeur jerked to starboard.
“French naval ships,” a sailor called from the crow’s nest.
“We have visitors. Run up the French flag,” Le Trompeur ordered.
French naval ships held a straight course. A towering warship came side by side to the Mer Un Serpent. A boat rowed between. Dignitaries boarded and Le Trompeur performed an elegant grand host, exhibiting his most sophisticated manners. He bowed to the decorated officer with the white plumed hat. Claire’s fluency in French helped her translate their agreement, an alliance between the pirates and the French navy−to attack the English bastards and send them to hell. War had broken out between the two countries and she was in the middle.
“Who is this woman?” The rotund officer with the white plumed hat plowed through the pirates to inspect her.
Claire raised her head and shook her hair clear of her eyes. “I am Madame Blackmon, the Black Devil’s wife.”
“Sacre Coeur. What madness is this you wreak, Le Trompeur?” His rapid French matched his wild pacing. “We do not want any trouble from her husband and now you have kidnapped his wife?”
Le Trompeur’s face reddened. “She is mine to do with as I please.”
The French admiral jabbed his finger into Le Trompeur’s chest. “This is a diplomatic nightmare. I order you to release her at once, and I forbid you to go anywhere near her. She will be conveyed to my ship. If the Black Devil does not align with us, I will have you executed.”
Le Trompeur stood on the deck of the Mer Un Serpent, his fingers flexed over the pummel of his sword. Claire was unbound and rowed to the French Admiral’s ship. Treated with deference, a small cabin was
provided. She stuffed down food from a tray and drank from a pitcher of water. She closed her eyes, the nourishment a balm. After a bath, she spread salve on her burned skin. She sighed, to stay in the comfort of the cabin. If there was any hope of escape she must observe the direction they sailed. A fresh gown belonging to the admiral’s wife hung on the wall. Cannons thundered. Her hands shook, buttoning the back of the dress. She scrambled topside.
Her eyes scanned eastward. The Mer Un Serpent engaged in battle with a British Man O’ War. Her countrymen had been crippled by the same storm they had survived and lay an easy target for the French pirates. Her hands gripped her throat. They would sink to the bottom of the sea. She turned and the French Admiral caught her eye.
“All’s fair in love and war, oui, Madame Blackmon?”
Devon paced in constant motion up and down the length of his ship, consulting Ames, barking orders. He chomped at the bit with the constant delays. The readiness for departure took three days, not six as Dooley predicted to get the Sea Scorpion and her newly outfitted companion, the Golden Gull sea ready. Nature’s fury blew them off course with a fierce tropical storm. Two more days were lost to that endeavor. His only hope lay in the confidence Le Trompeur ran adrift, blown off course as well.
On the bow, Ames joined him to survey a wallowing English ship, but idly, suspicious. Devon cursed this mission of mercy that further delayed him. He could not let the sea swallow helpless men and ordered all sail on the Sea Scorpion pulled into bare poles to aid in rescue. Blasphemies rose from grim confusion and turmoil in the British Man O’ War. The Bonaventure, her foremast shattered, and a gaping hole in the side, bilged fast with an ominous list to port, a question of moments before she sank.
One of the rowboats knocked alongside the Sea Scorpion. With his hands clasped behind his back, he proceeded to the helm to greet the visitors climbing up the entrance ladder. The first head to emerge was an older gentleman of modish and expensive apparel, carrying himself with the easy confidence of a man of rank. Devon gauged the man, a wizened face etched with deep lines, and eyes that scanned his uncouth crew of the Sea Scorpion. He was no pirate.
“And where the devil may I be now?” He demanded peevishly. “Are you English, or what the devil are you?”
“I have the privilege to be Irish. My name is Captain Devon Blackmon. And you have just boarded my ship, the Sea Scorpion.”
The gentleman stood thunderstruck. “The Black Devil. Extraordinary. I can’t believe the miracle of fate that drags me from my miseries and puts me in your presence. A fine tale this will make at home. My admiral first loses his fleet in the night by a tropical storm, then has his flagship fired under him by a French pirate, and ends all by being rescued by the very man I traveled hundreds of miles to find. Truly extraordinary.”
“At your service.” Devon bowed, taken aback by the old man’s ravings. “And whose august company do I find myself in? And may I inquire the name of the ship that molested you?”
“I am Lord Sunderland, the King’s Governor-General of the West Indies, and this is Admiral Henry Norreys, commander of His Majesty’s West Indian fleet, at present mislaid somewhere in this damned edge of the world. Of most urgency, I’ve been sent on a mission to find you. To scour the vast Caribbean, and if need be, turn the world on its head to accomplish that feat. Lo and behold we meet. What chance opportunity is that? And to answer your second inquiry, it was the foul Mer Un Serpent who dared to fire upon us.”
“And for what purpose have you sought me out?” Devon eyed him, letting no reference from his countenance show his emotion at being on the tail of Le Trompeur.
“To ask you to fight for King and country.”
Devon snorted. “You’re sadly mistaken if you think I’d venture into the King’s enterprise. I will tolerate you as guests aboard my ship, but your entreaties will go no further.” Devon turned on his heel and climbed to the foredeck, leaving a bewildered Admiral Norreys and Lord Sunderland in his wake.
He strained to stare beyond the horizon. Why had he not protected Claire? Thoughts of his mother surfaced then veered to Claire lost in the hands of Le Trompeur, a fate worse than the rape and killing of his mother. Helplessness, fear and anger scorched him. He cursed his own stupidity in not keeping a vigilant eye and the prey of such a beast as Le Trompeur.
Devon watched the fifty-three remaining survivors board his ship. The English Lord dared to follow him.
“If I may speak frankly,” Lord Sunderland endured. “I judge, sir, your history speaks of you as a resourceful fellow. You outrank the majority of your peers in nobleness and intellect.”
“Your persistence and tact test my good humor. I would almost think that a compliment if I did not realize the character flaws of my companions,” Devon said drily, waving aside Ames who had come to escort Lord Sunderland away.
“That is only a half-truth, an over-simplification,” Lord Sunderland said with a trace of impatience. “We are all the fruits of our experiences. You can’t change that.”
“A bitter truth,” Devon agreed. “I am what I am. A felon made by a bad king. An escaped slave. A pirate. All with a sum on my head, my fate if caught to be gallows bound.”
Lord Sunderland looked him right in the eye. “Piracy is a state of mind,” he argued. “You can call Francis Drake a pirate, or a benefactor, as you will.”
“Your diplomacy outweighs your intuitions and defies commonsense. Please do not insult me by inviting further illusion that I will fight for England. Need I remind you, you are aboard the Sea Scorpion, my ship, at my generosity. Do not stretch my hospitality.”
A cannon boomed and Devon reached for his spyglass. “Wolf. He captains one of my ships. Ames, halt our departure until we see what tidings Wolf brings.”
Like a dog with a bone, Lord Sunderland said, “If I may be so bold−I came out here with full knowledge of your past. I know you were accused of treason, reduced to King James’s treachery.”
Devon grew impatient. “So you know about all that. What difference−”
“It makes a lot of difference. For despite all that you are, you never went against a British ship, you saved helpless women. You play the role of a swaggering rake-hell, yet beneath that false crust, you’re a man of immense integrity and honor. If not for all the injustices, you would have had a country and freedom. I see it in your face. You want it badly. Tell me I am not right.”
Devon laughed as Wolf climbed up the ladder and joined them.
“England is at war with France,” reported Wolf, towering over the English Lord. “That is why that snake, Le Trompeur bid to make allies with you. The French fear your interference.”
Lord Sunderland touched his sleeve. Devon looked down to where the diplomat’s fingers pressed, the breach dared by the English Lord caught in his glower.
Lord Sunderland weathered his hostility. “However disillusioned you may be operating outside the shadow of the law and thumbing your nose at the very society that has scorned you, it is even more expedient than ever that you reconsider my proposal to do what is right for England.”
“I’d fight for England but not for that bloody rascal James,” said Devon.
“James you say?” bellowed Lord Sunderland. “We ridded ourselves of James three months ago. England and its people will only tolerate a ruthless tyrant for so long before they stand up and eradicate the malignancy. James has fled to France, living under the protection of King Louis. William now sits on the throne.”
“Good God. Why didn’t you say so? King William you say?” said Devon. Ames and Bloodsmythe edged nearer, sharing his astonishment.
His Lordship drove his point home amidst Devon’s’ turmoil. “King James is dethroned and banished. We are at war with France. You can enlist in His Majesty, King William’s service and see an end to your outlawry then return home and take up your life again.”
Stunned by this revelation, Devon barely had time to contemplate his good fortune. The revelation filled his mind and moved him
deeply. A chance to have freedom and country? To be with Claire and enjoy the normal nuances of life that he’d been so deprived? To be out from under the yoke of hated piracy, the shadow of the hangman, to have a home, a family. The freedom he yearned at his fingertips. Two long unfortunate years had elapsed. The prospect of taking up the new King’s fight and gaining the very thing he craved within his grasp. Claire wanted his freedom. He’d sell his soul to the very devil to make her happy.
“Devon, do you know what this means?” Ames came to his side, Bloodsmythe, Wolf, nodding their heads with the same assertion.
Devon did not miss the keen eyes of Lord Sunderland absorbing the dawning import on him and his crew.
“Here is a great chance for you and your men. We have heard of your many exploits and know what you are capable of upon the seas. Should you choose to serve the King during this war, your knowledge of the West Indies should render you a very valuable servant to His Majesty’s Government, which you will not find ungrateful. I encourage you to consider your freedom. I reiterate soundly, this is a great chance you are given.”
Devon leaped onto the ratlines and hailed his men. “Men, we have been given great opportunity. Freedom under a new King of England. King William. If you offer your services to fight in his name against the French, it’s freedom you’ll be breathing. How many say aye?”
“Aye! Aye!” A chorus of cheers ascended from the lips of every pirate. “Hail King William.”
“There’s your answer, Lord Sunderland.” Devon shouted. He jumped to the deck. “How injured was the Mer Un Serpent?” He did not want to think of Claire sinking in the middle of the ocean.
The admiral spoke. “We did a fine job. She’ll need to repair.”
“Good,” said Devon. “Le Trompeur will limp into St. Martine, the nearest French port. I’ll bet my life he is meeting up with the French squadron there. Wolf, sail northwest. My guess is that is where the storm blew the Royal fleet then head to St. Martine. Ames! Make all sail! Throw up all canvas! I have a score to settle with Trompeur.”
The Winds of Fate Page 28