The Solebay learned too late. The forbidding islet they were led to rang a death knell. Her helmsman turned sharp. The crunch of her sides scraped the razor-sharp bluffs of the islet. British sailors stared in terror. The maneuver barely freed them of significant damage. Davenport urged them on.
Jacob frowned through his glass. Up ahead there was scant space for steering through the islets. With the wind so flighty and the tide barely turned, his present course proved fatal. “Lieutenant Lawton, stand to wear ship! Put her before the wind!”
Enos’s upturned face bloated like a puffer fish. Abner Bosworth’s jaw worked up and down like a fireplace bellows.
Lawton’s astonishment mirrored his horror. “An evolution we dare not attempt at such close quarters, Captain.”
“Dammit. Go through those islets. Now,” Jacob roared. He shielded his eyes from the sun and speculated their chances. If only they could run through the gauntlet of islands. The odds were against success. He had designed and built the Vengeance for sleekness and maneuverability. To have any less faith in her performance was to see them all imprisoned. He was not going to give up without a fight. Jacob hung hard to the mast. He knew what was coming. Far below he heard the calls. “Haul taut. Up helm…clear away the bowlines.” Under a gust of wind, the Vengeance heeled sharply and leaned horizontal to port. The sea blurred past. Salt spray coated his face and stung his eyes. Would he fall into the sea? “Brace in the after yards!”
The gap woefully small, the Vengeance rose to an even keel and charged into the opening between the islets. “Steady as she goes,” ordered Jacob. Glancing astern, the uncertainty of the Solebay registered in her actions and unwilling to be caught in a trap, she hauled wind, costing her valuable time. Too busy to concern himself with Davenport’s idiocy, Jacob stared at the looming island angled straight for their larboard beam.
Below, Lieutenant Lawton stood solidly at the helm waiting for his command. He grimaced at the worried expression on Abby’s face, wishing he did not have to put her through this ordeal. If only he could take her in his arms and reassure her. How hopeless it must appear from the deck. From the cross-trees, his sight lay more confident. The Vengeance traveled at unparalleled speed. He waited until the last possible moment. “Hard port!”
Lawton put down the helm. The Vengeance reeled around with the wind. The island fled by with less than a fathom to spare. Like a hound too big to follow the rabbit that cut a hole in a fence, the Solebay hauled up sails and threw out an anchor to stop their progress. A cannon was brought up to the bow and fired. The shot fell short in a spray of water. Unable to follow, Davenport cursed his men. Jacob smirked. The British frigate would have to double back.
For the next half hour, they zigzagged a serpentine course. At the first opportunity, Jacob ordered starboard for a clear run into open seas. How long had he held his breath? The men cheered. Abby stared at the fore-topgallants, a palm pressed to her heart.
“What do you think, Miss Hansford?” He climbed down and jumped to the deck in front of her. He wanted to hear from her what she thought of his seamanship.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Foolhardy, risky and dangerous.”
“Is that all?”
“Brilliant…breathtaking.” She laughed and he hauled her into his arms and planted a kiss on her lips. The roar of elation died when two British frigates rounded ahead of them from the northern tip of the island. The cannon fire from their encounter with Solebay had brought them to heel. A white mushroom of smoke blossomed from the muzzle of a nine-pounder. He released Abby. A heavy feeling churned his gut. All their sail was sheeted home with no more speed to add. The two frigates breathed on their bow, dividing to entrap them.
Abby came up behind him, the swish of her skirts flowed into his legs. “Jacob?”
“They’ll sink us, Captain,” wailed Abner Bosworth.
“I’d soon as drown as get caught by them Brits,” spat Enos. “We’ll be put into that devil’s hole of a bulk off Long Island to perish.”
“It’s not my intention to do either, men. Enos, Ben, Lawton. Make a dash for the sea.” Even as he spoke the words, hairs went up on the back of his neck. He sprinted to the stern and swept a hand across his forehead to get rid of sweat. The Solebay sped towards them. Damn Davenport. Jacob had underestimated him.
“Abby, go below,” he ordered.
“No. Jacob there is something I must tell you...”
Jacob jerked his head around. He prodded her to the companionway. “Later, Abby. On the chance we are taken, tell them you are a British subject and were taken from a merchantman. You had your own cabin and were treated with respect. My men will vouch for your treatment. I want you protected at all costs.”
A cannon blast came short, swished a torrent of seawater over the sides, soaking them. The fool woman dug in her heels. He turned her toward him and kissed her long and hard. She was scared. That was it. She was concerned for his welfare.
She laid her hand against his cheek. The warmness of her palm was so tempting. “You must forgive me. You must believe in me.”
Jacob didn’t have time to entertain her puzzling remarks. Despite the crew’s remaining efforts, they earned only a half-knot of speed. The three British frigates closed in on them. A lucky shot from the Solebay struck the fore-topgallant mast. Jacob thrust Abby to the bulwarks. The mast crashed to the deck. His men scrambled like rats before a flood. Jacob cursed. The wreckage missed them by inches. He dragged the wild-eyed Abby across the deck and shoved her down the companionway. “Simeon, take her below and keep her there. Elijah−take a gang aloft and clear the wreckage.”
“Ben, fire into that nest of adders,” he ordered. The Vengeance shook with deafening thunder. The smoke cleared. The British frigate closest to them crippled with two holes below the waterline and bilging fast.
A dark cloud blotted out the sun and with it any chance for escape. From the opposite direction, the Solebay roared off a broadside. More shots splintered the spars, damaged rigging, breached the hull and mortally wounded Abner Bosworth. The Vengeance, hit at the waterline syphoned water and pitched the ship like the heaving heart of a man struck with a fatal arrow. Coldness passed right through him, a matter of time before they’d sink. His men looked to him with increasing doubt. To go on was futile.
Captain Davenport rubbed his hands together barking out commands from the deck of the Solebay. The raising of the three gold lions on the mizzenmast roared Davenport’s conceit. There was nothing more Thorne could do. The tinny taste of dread filled his mouth, and he wiped his hand across his eyes, sticky from the blood that poured from his head wound.
They were beaten. When you played at games of war, you lived or died. He and his crew knew that fact. If Abby were not aboard he would have fought to the end. Trapped he could not risk further battle. To hazard sending her to a watery grave was not an option. “Enos, man the pumps to keep us afloat. Lawton, send up the white flag. Surrender.”
After Captain Rowland Davenport ordered his ship’s carpenters to keep the Vengeance from sinking, he changed into a new uniform, one he had been saving for this occasion. The golden epaulets gleamed in the sun and mimed his mood to intimidate this specific Colonial. To catch an American prize such as the Vengeance was monumental. More satisfying was the fact he had captured the most infamous of the Colonial privateers, Captain Jacob Thorne. To come face to face with his adversary after so many months of chasing him brought undue pleasure.
Secured with grappling hooks, and balled rope fenders dropped in between to protect the sides from chinking with the waves, Davenport crossed the plank between the two ships. Several of his armed men waited with poised bayonets, swords and loaded muskets. The procedure was overkill. The prisoners were heavily chained to the point they could barely stand. He strutted to middeck and dusted a speck off his immaculate blue frock coat. So many humiliations he had suffered from Thorne’s machinations that left him ridiculed by his peers, scorned by his superiors, and mocked by
the English society he craved. How his fingers tingled with the prospect of making the Yankee Captain pay for those humiliations.
He scanned the motley group and wrinkled his nose with the offense of smoke, grease and sweat from the filthy savages. Clasping his hands behind his back, he swaggered up and down the line. He did not know his adversary’s countenance. Their engagements had been swift, rendering him impotent to glean a closer look. This sordid bunch had the audacity to glare at him. He’d teach them a thing or two about defeat. One man stood solidly above the fray. Davenport halted in front of him.
“Have we met?” The prisoner remained mute. It was a ludicrous question. Of course, he had never met the scoundrel. Beneath the grime nagged a familiarity. The prisoner stared boldly back at him. Did the Colonial dare to smirk? The Vicar.
“Pray tell me, your occupation has changed much from holy man. Am I right…Captain Thorne?” The prisoner raised an infuriating brow. In the afternoon light, even the Colonial’s shadow dared to spread over him.
“You are quite astute,” he mocked.
Davenport regarded the menace and object of his hatred. “You and your men are in a precarious position. The King has a price on your head for your capture.”
“I’m sure it’s a goodly sum.”
Davenport’s fists balled. The innuendo of his incompetence rang clear. “Guards, tie this man to the mast. He needs to learn who his betters are.”
It gave him gratification the fight the Colonial gave, his chains weighing him down. The guards gave him appropriate strikes with their clubs, the thuds on flesh, charming to Davenport’s ears. Normally such blows would cripple a man or at the least, leave him weeping. Too bad the Colonial did not beg. Impressive.
Once the chains were undone, it took eight of his men to wrestle Thorne to the mast. Four of his men suffered cracked ribs, black eyes and one broken arm.
Impatient Davenport waited until Thorne was secured. “I’ll perform the deed myself. I have great enthusiasm for novelty.” He held his hand out, palm up. His fingers clasped around the handle of the cat, an occupation he relished. He raised his arm. One. Two. Three. He snapped the whip on the Yank’s back. The Colonial’s body jerked with each lash. His shirt shredded. Dark red blood oozed down his back. If only he would whimper…a matter of time. Davenport smiled with his handiwork and swaggered to an inch from Thorne’s face. “Do you know how long I have dreamed of this? I’m a terrible insomniac. Do you know how many lashes I counted until sleep came to me?”
Thorne sneered. “The greatest fools think themselves cleverer than the men who laugh at them. Do your worst. You’ll get no satisfaction from me.”
“I have experience in breaking men,” Davenport gloated.
“To dream of confronting the jackal while he still lived…what if you find yourself trapped by the jackal?” Thorne snarled.
“A pathetic threat.” Davenport raised the whip again.
“Stop!” A female voice commanded…a very cultured female voice.
Davenport pivoted. He could not believe his eyes. “Lady Rutland?”
Abby stepped from the companionway. Hot bile rose in her throat. To see Jacob tied to the mast and beaten like an animal and at the mercy of a man like Davenport. Pascale, Enos, Lieutenant Lawton, Ben all of them battered and in chains. Men who had showed her nothing but kindness, humiliated and defeated. Like rubbish, Abner Bosworth’s body was heaved overboard. No canvas to shroud him, no proper burial, nothing to bless him to the next life. Abby said a silent prayer for Abner, a quiet man who had a family who depended on him, a man who had been considerate of her welfare. Her nails curled into her palms at the appalling lack of decency and respect, and the vile treatment by her countrymen.
The Vengeance leaked fast. The rasp and whoosh of hand pumps were worked by men to keep her afloat. Carpenters hammered away on lowered scaffolds thrown over the side of the ship. Of course, Davenport would want to keep his prize.
She had taken precious time dressing in the violet silk before she made her presence known. Her old tools brought an intake of breath about the ship.
“Lady Abigail Rutland? Is it truly you?” Davenport didn’t quit staring.
Neither did his men. Numerous British sailors, her countrymen, held bayonets pointed at her countrymen? Yet they were Colonials. How could they be her countrymen? She didn’t have time to consider the paradox. A plan. She required a plan to get Thorne and the crew out of this disaster. Risky. To help them spelled treason.
She dared a glance to Jacob and paled from the ferocity of his glare.
“Lady Abigail Hansford Rutland.” Jacob enunciated each name. “Of course.”
Now he knew the truth and the hellish lie she told. She stopped thinking…but she needed to think. If only she could move. She stared at Jacob, feeling his vulnerability, feeling every sting of the lashes he received, feeling all his hatred. If only, to go back in time and change everything.
Move. Now. Abby straightened her spine and sailed forward, using her bearing of the high-born, she hoped to manipulate the British naval captain.
Davenport turned on the Colonial captain. “You did not know the precious cargo you had on board? This is rich. Lady Rutland, however did you pull it off?”
“Captain Davenport. It is good to make your acquaintance again.” She fought not to look at Thorne, keeping her eyes on the British captain. How Thorne suffered because of her. He had surrendered to save her, knew it in her bones. Her heart twisted with the condemnation she must give Jacob, to let him think the worst of her. How he would hate her for what would seem like her betrayal.
Davenport narrowed his eyes. “How awful to be in the company of these savages.”
“Savages?” she trilled, stopped before Davenport, and gave an appropriate curtsy, the low bodice of the lavender gown doing the trick, his gaze arrested on her bosom. “Captain, it has been a terrible ordeal and a long story. I am so happy it is you who has saved me from these dreadful Colonials.” Was that her embracing English snobbery? She shuddered.
“Captain Thorne, you had the impudence to kidnap one of His Majesty’s peers?”
Jacob’s voice hardened. “She was disguised as a boy on board a captured merchantman. Did you think I’d abandon my mission because some damned English bitch happened to be on board the ship I seized?”
She stiffened. Stay the course, Abby. She looped her arm in Davenport’s and shifted him away from Thorne, anything to spare Jacob another lash. Her stomach reeled with the bloody whip in Davenport’s hand, gelled with Jacob’s blood. “Please escort me from this horrid scene.” She begged prettily, guiding him to the Solebay and pressed a hand to her throat, the shocked faces of the Vengeances’ crew, damning her.
Why was Simeon bound in chains? “Captain Davenport. There is a mistake. This man is a loyal subject and was kidnapped with me aboard the Civis. He has saved my life, acted as my chaperone, and has no more loyalty to these cloddish Colonials than I do. You must free him at once.” At the nod of Davenport’s head, Abby let out a sigh of relief, Simeon’s chains dropped in a clunk to the deck, the old man’s eyes tearing up in gratitude. To have Simeon’s help in whatever scheme she devised to liberate the Colonials was paramount.
“You deceitful bitch,” Jacob sneered.
Davenport let go of her arm and swung to Thorne. “I cannot allow any more insults to Lady Rutland.” Glittering hatred fired between the two men.
Jacob snorted.
“Arrogant dog! Enough of this insolence!” Davenport angled his head. The guards on each side of Thorne closed in with short, hard jabs to the stomach and ribs. Jacob crumpled, held upright by his bonds. Davenport smirked.
Abby resisted the urge to run to Jacob and release him. No. She had a part to play.
While the guards stood over him, ready to strike again, Thorne’s breath came in short, painful gasps. Her eyes locked on his in shock and horror.
“Lady Rutland. You have nothing to fear from this barbarian anymore.” Davenp
ort sought to reassure her. “This lawless villain will never have the opportunity to harm you. My men have him well under control.”
For how long had she held her breath? Despite his beating, Thorne looked dangerous.
“My dear. There is no reason to be afraid. To face your enemy,” Davenport continued, with a hint of irritation seeping through his tone. “He’s a rebel who will pay for his crimes. Lieutenant Smith, take Lady Rutland to my quarters and see that all of her needs are met.”
She clutched Davenport’s sleeve. “I cannot be thrust in the company of strangers again. Please, I am frightened. These long months at sea…tell me what has happened to my father and brothers. Are they all…dead?” She sobbed. “I must know.”
Impatient with a weeping woman on his hands, Davenport half relented. “Your father and brothers are alive, Lady Rutland.”
“Alive? I saw an explosion…”
“Your father and brothers were spared. They had grown impatient in the laboratory and went looking for you.”
Abby pressed fingers to her trembling lips. The Rutland men and their blessed impatience had saved them. “Who would do this to my family?”
Davenport lifted his heels, rising to emphasize his knowledge. “The Duke of Westbrook was highly involved in helping your father to find the culprit and speculated on a past revenge. He found a note in the library to the heinous crime committed against your family, signed and detailing what the perpetrator Percy Devol, had done. In the letter, Devol outlined how he ended your father and brothers’ lives, how he was going to make the Rutland’s pay further through you and your eldest brother, Nicholas with a slow death. Percy had an ax to grind with your grandfather, the Duke of Rutland and desired to wipe-out the family line.”
Her mind spun. Her father and brothers were alive! Joy filled her soul. “Did they catch Percy Devol, and why did he have such hatred?”
“Many years ago, Devol’s mother was the vicar’s daughter on the Rutland estate. A bit unhinged, she held a fascination for the duke, your grandfather. In fact, she was a nuisance. But when she had a child out of wedlock and bandied about the village that the duke had molested her and the child was his, the situation became a matter to be addressed. Due to the great friendship the duke enjoyed with the vicar, her father sent her away. She beat the boy, Percy and told him he wasn’t any good and would never measure up to the duke. Percy Devol grew up deranged, hating the Rutland’s and feeling he was the rightful heir. He has escaped England but your father has a host of investigators on the case.”
Sweet Vengeance Page 20