Sweet Vengeance

by St. Michel, Elizabeth

  But inevitably, the odor of tar and pitch, and the keel of the Vengeance cutting through waves, dashed away the fantasy. Enclosed from the rest of the ship, the bow had become her new bedroom, offering an oasis far above the atrocious conditions aboard the Civis. She stretched across her new mattress, a nest of damp rope coils, the hardness branded into her back. Beneath two worn blankets, she ducked her head and shivered. If only she could keep warm. Compared to life aboard the Civis, her life was easy. Captain Thorne was not the monster as reported. One thought blurred into another. Why had he used the ruse of a vicar? What drove him to be a privateer? His family had been treated badly but what really made him do what he did? Why his intense hatred toward aristocrats?

  Resigned to rise and greet the day’s onslaught of chores, she ripped off her blankets and groped in the half-light. The cold slapped her flesh as she bound her breasts. At some point, the night before, which she could not remember, she had peeled off the bindings to collapse into exhaustion. Her fingers worked clumsily over the buttons of her coat, but she managed to do herself up. For her personal needs, a chamber-pot had mysteriously appeared and she smiled, courtesy of her knight in shining armor, Simeon.

  Abby grimaced, and examined the boots from the dead man her proud benefactor had bequeathed. After bandaging her feet, she closed her eyes and slipped on the well-worn boots. Rewarded with the comfort and perfect fit, she uttered a brief prayer of gratitude for the dead cook. With one last look, she tossed her blankets over Rousseau’s, Reveries of a Solitary Walker, concealing the book she borrowed from Captain Thorne, and seized her empty plate.

  In the galley, Simeon raised an eyebrow, a silent reprimand to her late awakening. “Captain Thorne is still at rest.”

  She translated her boon. Good. Far be it from her to point out the captain’s excesses and wished him a healthy headache. She didn’t care if he rose from his bed the entire day.

  Simeon plunked down a plate of muffins. She took a bite and closed her eyes, reveling in the warm cinnamon sweetness. What a loss for the earl, his former employer to lose such a genius in his kitchen. No chef for the Rutland’s dared to compete with his skills. How did Simeon pull off his culinary miracle every day? Of course, the capture of the Civis provided a wealth of excellent fare. In terms of food, Abby relaxed her morals, bearing no objection to Thorne’s thievery. It was certainly an improvement over the rancid, rotted meals presented by Captain Lee. Under Simeon’s supervision, extra rations were furnished and her pallor and strength improved.

  Bored, Abby finished helping Simeon in the galley, then climbed topside. Shouting from above jerked her attention skyward. High in the riggings sailors hailed one another. Through sheets of canvas she barely discerned them, growing dizzy and fascinated with their labors so high above the sea. She had forgotten to breathe for the span of several seconds. Never would she dare to attempt such a venture. Heights terrified her.

  Curiously, John Dawson, a crew member, his face like a rosy withered apple and with deep set eyes and the look of a scatterbrained philosopher, crooked his finger, motioning her to the forecastle. He was the buffoon of the ship. She forced her gaze downward, keeping her pace slow. A lump grew in her throat. A sailor brushed past her and climbed to the foredeck, leading other sailors with him. She observed the men pairing up to lower barrels in the hold, the last of Civis’s confiscation. She’d find out what John Dawson wanted then be on her way.

  Images of One-Ear and the navigator loomed. Abby hesitated. Did she dare let her guard down? She squared her shoulders. The rebels were different than the sailors on the Civis.

  Hearty laughter drew her attention to the forecastle where the ship’s carpenter hefted two massive breasts. Abby stopped. Michelangelo would be rendered speechless. Artfully carved by his own hands, Enos gloried in the hail of whistles and cheers. Sailors fondled and kissed Sally’s enhancement. Enos pumped his fist into the sky. Abby’s toes curled in her boots as Enos was lowered on scaffolding over the bow to repair the maimed figurehead.

  The oppressive presence of rebels reared everywhere. She had not ventured out that much since her capture, staying in the bow or in the galley with Simeon and now alien to the bustle of the sun-brightened day. Sailors hoisted more sails. The ship moved at full tack. Sweat flowed freely as the men strained to lower the cargo into the hold. A vulgar curse made her jump aside. She stared while the largest black man she had ever laid eyes on heaved a barrel on his shoulder past her. John Dawson waved impatiently.

  She stopped five feet from him and debated to get Simeon. No. She had to fight her own battles. Elmer hooked his thumbs in his belt. He towered over her and her palms sweated.

  “What you doing, boy” he called boldly. “Are you an English spy?”

  “No, sir,” she stammered, her voice dropping in key on the last word. The other sailors stopped. Did they seek some diversion from their boredom? The hairs on her neck rose.

  “Hey!” The sailor grinned over his shoulder. “This redcoat’s got a relative around here. There, boy!” he pointed to the chicken pens. “Do you suppose one o’ them is your mother?”

  “I have to clean the Captain’s cabin.” She yanked her hat lower and bristled under the uproarious laughter of the crew. She pivoted refusing to be the target of their humor.

  In the next instant, her hat was snatched from her head, baring the mop of shaggily cropped blonde hair. She threw her hands over her head to hide the uneven thatch, at the same time opening her mouth to vent her outrage. She clamped her mouth shut and grabbed for her hat, only to see it sail high in the air.

  “Tarnation seize me!” John Elmer hooted. “That’s a fine hat!”

  Another caught the hat and inspected it. “I think it’d make a fine hat for our chicken.”

  As Abby reached him, the hat sailed off again. She curled her fingers into fists. “You beetle-browed bastardly colonial!” she shrieked, “Give me back my hat!”

  Elmer caught it and, with loud guffaws, tossed it on a chicken pen and set his foot on it. A well-directed boot found his bony shin, and his laughter exploded into shouts of pained fury. He hopped around on one leg. She grabbed her hat and jammed it over her head.

  With a roar, John Dawson seized Abby and lassoed a rope beneath her arms. “You’ll pay, you little redcoat brat!” he snarled. She kicked and bit her assailant.

  The rope grew taut and her feet and arms flailed. Hoisted high into the air, the rope swung with the pitch of the ship. Out over the sea, the hungry waves called her name. Enos gawked from his scaffolding. Back through the shrouds, she clawed to get a handhold. Like a pendulum she sailed, dizzy and helpless, her heart hammering in her ears. Black spots formed in her vision. Sweat streamed down her back. Below, sailors gathered like seeking ants around a tasty carcass. Was that her screaming?

  “Put him down, now!” Thorne commanded.

  Abby dropped fast. The deck menaced. She crashed face down. Had she broken every bone in her body? In deep hiccupping breaths, the world swirled. She crawled into a ball, praying the spinning would stop. She heard a wind snap at the sails, and in the wake of its shattering, the silence was ominous.

  Two boots, one of them stained, appeared in her line of view. “You men!” Thorne barked. “Lieutenant Lawton will find more worthy chores for your attention than abusing a child. You will report to him immediately! John Dawson, plan on doing dogwatch.”

  She lifted her head. Dawson and his cronies scrambled sheepishly toward the poop deck. Thorne hauled her to her feet, his face carved of granite. If only she could stop trembling.

  Gradually the captain’s stern visage softened as he stared at her. “I’m sorry, boy. My men are a long way from home. I fear their manners and judgment need improvement. Quit shaking.”

  Though the words were softly spoken, his tone carried an unequivocal authority. She fidgeted beneath his close inspection to see if any injury occurred. Slowly she brought her breathing under control and darted a glance at the sails above her. “I fell fr
om a tree and broke my arm.”

  “I see but how will you make a good sailor unless you conquer your fears?”

  Abby flinched then narrowed her eyes. “No way am I going up there.”

  Thorne responded with a low chuckle of amusement. “Ornery little orphan,” Thorne muttered and gestured officiously. “Come and be quick about it.”

  In dumb surprise, Abby stared after him. “I’m telling you, I ain’t going to do it!” She had survived swinging out over ocean and a near death plummet to the deck. Blood whizzed through her veins like a tsunami.

  Thorne had gone only a few paces when he sharpened his voice and, without a glance in her direction barked, “Hop to it, boy! Don’t stand there gawking.”

  Abby ran into the back of his boots. He turned abruptly, grabbed her waist beneath her coat and lifted her onto the ratlines. Abby squelched a scream and hung frozen, her hands clenched around the ropes. “Get me down, you cloddish colonial!”

  His arms stretched over her head. His feet anchored beneath hers. The captain’s amused chuckle reverberated through her back. “The best way to swim is to be thrown in the water.”

  His breath tickled her ear. Intimately his body lay against hers and they both swayed in unison. Abby gasped. The ship plummeted, sea-spray washed against her cheeks, then the ship bowed upward. Her stomach flip-flopped. “We ain’t swimming. We are flying! It ain’t natural.”

  The Yank roared with laughter in her ear. “Keep moving, boy. I’m right behind you.”

  “I see nothing funny. Must be rebel humor, you dim-witted barnacle. You could talk the legs off a donkey,” she muttered then followed the line of the mast that disappeared into the canvas. The climb was formidably long enough to take her into the next world. “And where do you think we are going?”

  “Keep going,” Thorne ordered.

  “You thatch-gallows rogue. Are you sure a cannon ball didn’t smack your head?”

  “That’s enough besmirching my character, boy. I’m not an abuser of children, but if you tempt me enough, I may change my ways.”

  A broad hand pushed up her buttocks, the warmth of his palm on her nether parts burned through the wool of her clothing, heat unfurled in its wake. Abby yelped and ignored the unprecedented thump of her heart and focused.

  “If I didn’t know better,” Thorne offered an off-hand remark, “I would have guessed you had an easy life up until now, Abe, you’re as soft as a woman.”

  Abby about died. She managed to draw enough breath to hurl another insult. “Your mother should have thrown you away and kept the stork.”

  “Careful,” Thorne warned. “Or I’ll take down your breeches and blister your backside.”

  She crouched like a wild animal. “You lay a finger on me, rebel and I’ll−” Abby squeaked as he pushed at her again. She clutched the rope lines, hauling upward, the wiry hemp abrading her fingers. If only she did not fall. The wind whipped, thrusting the sails, and in answering volley, the Vengeance shuddered and creaked. Was she climbing the mast of a ship far above the surface of the earth and in the middle of the ocean? Since the night of her ball, everything that had befallen her was unbelievable. Was this any different?

  The ship dipped unexpectedly and she slid downward, her boot bumping violently against Thorne’s head. He cursed. She decided she would rather read about adventures than have them. In a book, adventures had a happy ending.

  Except there was something wonderful about striking out like this, off into the clouds, and the freedom it allowed. Despite being scratched, sweating and terrified, each time she took a rung, each time she put one foot above the other, she felt a sense of heady accomplishment that rivaled any exhilaration she had ever experienced.

  When she climbed up to a platform she practically shouted her victory. And what she saw there placed her in complete awe.

  It was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. A sense of wonder broke over her. She found herself standing atop a blue world. From her vantage point she could almost reach out and touch the horizon where the infinite hues of blue sea merged with the sky. Sunlight danced off the water, white caps rolled endlessly, wrapping her in an aura of magnificence so enthralling that her heart caught at the sight of it.

  Thorne heaved his bulk up beside her. “What do you think, lad?”

  Think? She had never felt this way before. The pervasive enchantment seeped through her bones, the sight of the water, the sky, the colors, the sounds of the wind all drugged her with their seductiveness.

  He stood in a slant of sunlight from the east, grinning at her. Behind him the mainsail strained with the awesome power of the wind as if the majesty of nature bowed to him. His white shirt, deeply V-necked, billowed and was girded low on his hips with a black belt. His black pants fit snugly and he had shed his boots and hat. The breeze toyed with his hair. Abby had the same strange sensation looking at him as she had looking at the majestic seascape. Like the sea, he was not threatening, but impressive. And seductively wild.

  Abby laughed aloud and Thorne laughed with her. Was his reward, Abe’s exultation? She leaned back and reveled in the heat of the sun on her face and the wind to cool her skin. In companionable silence, they each enjoyed the other’s company.

  But it was Abe looking at him not Abby. Thorne wanted to see the world through an orphan boy’s eyes. She had the distinct feeling he needed Abe’s joy. So Abe emerged to fill the void in Thorne. He had saved her demise from the Civis’s captain and for that she was extremely grateful. To give him a friendship for the remaining time yielded an act of mercy. Her mother taught her whenever one was in need there was an opportunity to make a difference. An act of kindness could change the world, like throwing a stone in a pond to ripple out and create a wave. In two weeks’ time, she’d be free and on her way to England. Smiling, she glanced surreptitiously. There in the depths of the captain’s cobalt blue eyes a sorrow lurked. The grief and bitterness revealed itself for just a moment before shuttered. Thomas’s death had broken a part of her Patriot.

  Thorne slapped Abby on the back. “Amidst all that squalling, you got over your fears.”

  Abby nodded. “You were not offended by my insults?”

  “Camouflage is a game we undertake, but our secrets are surely revealed by what we want to seem to be as what we want to conceal. You were scared, that’s all. I’m sure there is more to your story. In time when you feel you can trust me, you can tell the rest.”

  A wind blew up from the east and Thorne looked west. Abby followed his line of sight where collective mare’s tails glided across the sky. “Fair weather. Hide behind your insults all you want, but make sure they are not done in front of the crew. There will be consequences.”

  Reality whooshed on her like a savage zephyr. If he knew her for who she was the end would not be so pretty. Thorne’s blood would curdle. To see joy through a hated aristocrat’s eyes? The American War of Independence spoke freedom, standing against the old rules of landed gentry. Her roots damned her, and if her genuine identity lay revealed, her life would hang grimmer than aboard the Civis. Abby’s conquest of heights died a bitter pall.

  Do not get too comfortable.

  “Time to climb down, lad. Get your pallet and bed down in my cabin. It will spare you of the pranks put on by the crew.”

  Abby choked and coughed to clear her throat. “I ain’t goin’ to bed down with any Patriot, that’s for sure.”

  Chapter 5

  “You test my patience, lad, but you will observe my tolerance as a virtue,” ordered Thorne.

  With her back to him, Abby knelt on the floor of the Captain’s cabin, smoothing her rude pallet of rough linen tick stuffed with rags. “You have all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.”

  “What did you say?” He bellowed like a bull.

  “I hope you don’t snore.” No amount of begging, pleading or protestation against her sleeping in his cabin changed his command. Simeon had interjected and received a blistering that would have withered the roc
k of Gibraltar. Abby slapped the blankets on her bed.

  “What’s the problem now?”

  “You remind me of a farmer who could not get his mule to plow so he took a plank and smacked the animal on the side of the head.”

  Thorne sank in his chair and rocked with laughter. “If nothing else boy, you are pure amusement. Do you think comparing me to a mule will change my mind? Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” He turned with an air of dismissal back to his paperwork, leaving Abby speechless and her cheeks flaming with indignation.

  She hitched her britches. “My mother is rolling in her grave me beddin’ down with a rebel. You best get yourself some extra cannon ‘cause you’re going to need it come time the redcoats capture you.”

  “I’ll be worrying about that when the time comes, if it ever does,” the captain replied. “I can imagine you’ll be ready to fire the first salvo.”

  “I’m going to sleep now, rebel. Can’t say it’s been nice talking to you.” She flopped on her pallet. “Don’t stay up too late. You needing your beauty sleep and all because I’m sure you love nature in spite of what it did to you.”

  Thorne rubbed the back of his neck. “You can think of me as your elder brother.”

  Utterly impossible. Abby, shook her head in frustration. No harm would come to Abe, she was certain. At the same time, he was so dangerous to her. She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering his kiss in the garden. He made her feel too much, assaulting her body with sensations and filling her heart with inexplicable yearnings.

  Dissatisfaction rose with his response to her taunts. She gazed restlessly around the room she had learned to keep meticulously clean. It was a fairly large, wood-paneled cabin, adequately lit by an oil lamp that rested on his sturdy walnut desk across from the bed. In the corner, near a tall oak chest topped by a washbasin, sat a wooden table and high-backed chairs where he and his officers dined. Bordering the top of the room lined a shelf of books. The bed bore a feather tick and blue coverlet with several plump pillows. It was a comfortable arrangement, much nicer than the bow and certainly better than the freezing damp hold of the Civis.