Grantville Gazette, Volume 65

by Bjorn Hasseler

  "So far," Marit breathed. "That is long for one man."

  "Some men are longer than oth—"

  "Klaus!" the Captain and Henrik cried together.

  "So it is," Lysbeth agreed. She was now committed and resigned to tell her tale. "But this is a man I have not seen since I was a girl. He left me with an ailing mother, a brother more interested in coffeehouse politicking than family, and a set of twins."

  Marit gasped into her hand.

  "The villain!" she said. "Did he not wed you?"

  "Oh my, no. Nor did he get the twins on me." Lysbeth felt herself blush at the thought. She was so comfortable calling her father's gift 'the twins' that she had forgotten the implication that the moniker implied. Her blush faded into what must have looked a wicked grin.

  "No," she said, "I did not birth the twins. Although I have made them cry for years since they were left to me."

  "Captain," Klaus interrupted, "I don't normally take to women as crew, but this one I like. Can we keep her?"

  It was perhaps the first time Lysbeth had heard Klaus put together two sentences without uttering some vulgarity.

  Vargas scratched at his thick, dark beard and ignored the helmsman, instead asking, "What then are your truths and lie?"

  "The man I seek," Lysbeth said, "is a prince. He is a preacher. And he is a pirate."

  Marit made a sound of pure delight. "La! You give us not one mystery, but two."

  "This man sounds like a bit of a scoundrel himself," Vargas said. "If I may say so, Señora."

  "Oh my," Marit said, "we have indeed found a game for you, dear Lysbeth. Now, where shall we start to find your lie—"

  "Sails!"

  A clamor of calls came from the rigging. The crew working on the deck below them rushed to the starboard railing, and Lysbeth felt a palpable change in the mood of the men.

  The playful tone was absent from Vargas's voice. The indulgent shipboard host was gone in an instant. Only the captain remained.

  "Class and range," he commanded, and men cried out with nautical figures and weights that Lysbeth did not begin to understand.

  She rose and moved toward the far railing as the sailing men discussed the new ship with unfamiliar sounding words. She stepped with care as the Leeuwin pressed into another swelling wave. There was indeed a ship beside them, still distant, but much closer than Lysbeth had imagined when the lookout first made his cry.

  Henrik and Marit joined her at the railing. He pointed, gesturing along the waterline where a shadow rose and fell against the side of the oncoming ship. "She's a xebec rowed hard into the sun. They kept her sails furled so as not to give her away."

  "Aye," Vargas said, joining them at the rail. "And that's not good news."

  The heat of the day was upon them. Lysbeth pulled her scarf from around her throat. Air brushing the nape of her neck made her hair stand on end, and the wrap's light material was damp where it had rested on her skin.

  "Can we run, sir?" Henrik asked the captain.

  "They have the wind. But there is a shoal near the mouth of Seixe." As he said it, Lysbeth felt the Leeuwin turn beneath her feet. She gripped her scarf with one hand, steadying herself with the other. "If we can make the coast, our pursuers may draft too deep to cross it."

  Marit's voice was pitched high again, but with concern now rather than the casual excitement of the morning's diversions. "Will we make the coast?"

  Lysbeth watched Vargas. His lips were a thin, pale line under the coarse hair of his beard. "Señor Voorburg," he said, "escort the women down to the cabin."

  Henrik's eyes were rounded, white showing around the blue. He swallowed and it looked to Lysbeth like a dry motion. "I can help you on deck," the young man said, "should they…should there be need."

  "Will we make the coast?" Marit asked again.

  Lysbeth's throat was suddenly dry, as well. "We will find our way to the cabin, sirs. Come, let's give the men room to work."

  Lysbeth quickly wound her scarf into a ball, took Marit's small hand into her own and led the way forward to the small, shared cabin. The ship felt different now, twisting and struggling to climb before bolting down the face of each obstructing wave.

  It was dark inside the cabin. Lysbeth closed the door and leaned her back against it. Marit stumbled, sitting down hard before scrambling to one of the low sleeping pallets.

  Lysbeth felt chilled before her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Light from the cabin's single, small window combined with the motion of the fleeing ship to send an irregular patch of light dancing across the cabin floor. It was disorienting to look at, and when she heard a sob she moved to sit with the small woman on the pallet.

  Pirates.

  Lysbeth had left her home in Haarlem in search of pirates, but never intended to find them like this. Not taken at sea. Not sold as a slave, perhaps never to reach Sallee.

  Marit shook quietly and Lysbeth pulled her close. She draped the thin scarf around the weeping woman's shoulders, more as a gesture of comfort than for warmth, and searched for some way to distract her. Then she remembered Marit's game.

  "You've yet to guess," Lysbeth said.

  "What?"

  "The game. You haven't yet guessed my lie." Lysbeth's low voice seemed to calm the younger woman, so she continued speaking. "The man I seek has many titles. I have told you three. Can you guess from what you know of me which is the lie?"

  "Oh, Lysbeth. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but now is not the time for games. Don't think me cruel for saying so, but you are unwed. Can you have any idea what they might take from me should we be boarded?"

  The frank certainty in the small woman's voice froze Lysbeth's words. Men moved above them on the forward deck. Men shouted and rushed about outside their small cabin door, as well.

  Lysbeth wondered what she would do if they were boarded? It was too much to hope that the approaching ship was her father's own. Even if the ship were her father's, would he care enough for a daughter long abandoned to spare her from slavery?

  For the first time since stepping aboard the Leeuwin, a flutter of doubt settled Lysbeth's belly. If some other pirate took them, would her father's name spare her from slavery?

  Marit and Henrik van Voorburg were each from wealthy Dutch families. Should the ship be taken, the promise of ransom might grant them some degree of protection. But what of her?

  If legend and reputation were to be trusted, Lysbeth's wealthy father could afford any imaginable payment. Should ransom be demanded, would he pay it? She had not seen the man in a decade, and then he had sailed out of her life despite her mother's pleas that he stay.

  Also, what did she know of pirates? It could be that her father's very name might provoke a rival to murder her on the spot, if not to spite an adversary, then perhaps for fear of his wrath? Either way, the end for her would be the same.

  No. Trusting to her father for rescue was perilous, at best. To be taken without hope of ransom might mean all the horrors of Tunis or Algiers. And so Lysbeth started to form the beginnings of a plan. Before all else, she had to calm Marit. She would need the woman's help and something else that Marit had mentioned when they were up on deck.

  "Marit," Lysbeth said, "I think it's time to introduce you to the twins."

  "What?" The absurdity of the words shocked Marit from her tears. "Dear Lysbeth, have you come unhinged? I'd have known if there were children aboard. I don't understand."

  Lysbeth left her scarf with Marit and crawled across the narrow cabin to her pallet and the trunk beside it. She opened it, moving her extra clothing aside blindly in the dark. At the bottom was a long box. Its weight was familiar and comforting when she lifted it free from the chest.

  She set the box on her pallet and reached back into the trunk for a worn leather satchel. When both were free, she closed the chest and called for Marit to join her by the wane light near the window.

  "It is a pistol case," Marit said.

  "It is," Lysbeth agreed, and she opened th
e box for Marit to see. Inside lay a matched set of flintlock pistols. Lysbeth studied the familiar lines of the guns. Her memory filled in fine details and tiny imperfections where her eyes could not in the dim light.

  "These are my twins," she said. "They were a gift to my brother, but he refused them."

  "Can you kill a pirate with one?" Marit breathed. "Could you kill their captain?"

  "I've never had need to fire at a man."

  "Then we are doomed should they board and take us."

  "Perhaps not. Do not despair, Marit." Lysbeth motioned with her head toward the pallet where her loading kit sat in the gloom. "Shall we load them?"

  Marit's teeth flashed in the dim light, and her movements seemed more confident when she crossed to the pallet. Lysbeth's spirits felt buoyed as well. With the twins in hand and Marit recovered from her sobbing, Lysbeth resolved to move forward with the next step in her plan.

  "There is something else I need from you," she said carefully.

  "What is it?" Marit asked. "I'm afraid I have no secreted guns aboard."

  Lysbeth moved with caution now. She needed Marit to worry about what the pirates might do to a woman, but it wouldn't do to have the young bride break down again.

  "You mentioned a set of manly clo—"

  An explosion drowned out the words of Lysbeth's request. Her ears rang from the noise, and it seemed loud enough to have come from within their darkened cabin.

  Marit screamed. She was crumpled on the floor in a heap. Men shouted outside, and Lysbeth rushed to the small window. The crew had uncovered two cannons. Smoke lay heavy around them, and they worked to reload the one Vargas had just fired.

  Men lined the railing on the raised aft deck. Some carried long curved knives. Lysbeth saw several long guns. Henrik was there among them and he carried a stout pole with a wicked hook at one end.

  The Leeuwin pressed into another wave. The bow pitched up, and as it did the pirate's ship rose into view beside them. It was low to the water, sleek, and wet-looking. It bristled with oars, scuttling across the water like a many-legged beetle.

  Men crouched on the deck of the ship. Pirates, Lysbeth supposed, though they didn't look so different from the men aboard the Leeuwin.

  A cloud of smoke puffed from the pursuing ship. Immediately after, Lysbeth heard a small, concussive pop. The line of sailors with Henrik on the aft deck broke suddenly as something blasted through the ship's low wall.

  The noise from it was terrible. Marit screamed again, and Lysbeth thought that she might have screamed as well.

  She never saw the cannonball, but its effect was catastrophic. It sent several men flying. It struck Klaus where he stood at the wheel and swept him from the ship entirely. Men scattered, scrambling away from the ruined wall.

  One man was thrown back nearly to the lower deck. Shocked, Lysbeth watched him as he tried to rise. He leapt quickly to his feet, like he had tripped and was embarrassed to have fallen. He turned then, and Lysbeth felt her gorge rise when she recognized his young face.

  A length of the wooden railing had flown free and transfixed the man. He swatted at the beam with his hands while twisting to see where the end protruded from his back. Then he lifted his head, looking forward to where she hid in the cabin. Though he couldn't possibly see her in the darkened window, he seemed to look directly into her eyes. Then he took a step forward into empty air and toppled to the deck below.

  "Oh, Henrik," she whispered.

  Lysbeth's throat burned as she turned away from the shouting men on the deck. Tears stung her eyes. She wiped them away with fingers that smelled oily from handling the twins.

  "Marit," her voice sounded low and rough, even to her own ears. "I need Henrik's clothes."

  "Why? Whatever for?"

  Lysbeth ignored her, moving to the satchel and her waiting guns. She opened the leather case. Working by feel, she pulled out the scissors that she used to cut patches. She offered the scissors to Marit.

  "Quickly now," Lysbeth said. "Cut off my hair, then I will need those clothes."

  Marit stared at her for a long moment. It was oddly quiet out on the deck, and Lysbeth couldn't decide if that was a comforting thing. At length, Marit gave a short nod and took the scissors.

  Marit appeared to gain confidence from the decision. Her voice sounded steadier and less shrill after accepting Lysbeth's course of action.

  "Here," Marit said, rising, "at least come to the window where we can see."

  "No!" Lysbeth rushed out the word far more abruptly than she had intended. Marit looked at her sharply, and Lysbeth imagined the woman's dark eyes narrowing.

  Lysbeth couldn't allow Marit look out the window. To see her husband's ruined body on the deck would undo her.

  "Do it here," Lysbeth said. "So…so I can load the twins."

  Marit didn't argue and they both set to work.

  Henrik's clothes were a problem. For one thing, they were newly made and perfectly clean. Vargas was a fastidious man, and he kept an orderly ship. Even still, they did what they could with oil from a lamp and salt-crusted grit from the floor.

  The fit proved challenging, as well. Lysbeth was of a height with Henrik, and she lacked Marit's generous curves. Still the dark pants were snug and rested too low around her hips. She had to suck in a deep breath to buckle the belt.

  The movement of the ship changed again. It turned, rolling slowly with the waves rather than taking them on the bow. The voices of the men outside changed as well.

  "Hurry!" Marit whispered.

  The shirt was made to fit under a narrow jacket. The heavy coat looked impossibly out of place on a ship, and Lysbeth wondered if Marit had taken the Spanish weather into account when she'd had it tailored.

  The shirt fit her well enough, but despite the short hair and pants, there was no mistaking her femininity. Not at least without finding something to wear over the shirt.

  Marit had the solution to that problem.

  "Here," she said. "Take it off. We'll use your scarf."

  Lysbeth did as instructed and together they wound her chest tight with the light material. She was reaching for the shirt when someone flung open the door.

  It was bright from the midday sun outside. The sailor couldn't possibly see inside the darkened cabin. Still, Lysbeth gasped and instinctively threw an arm across the immodesty of her tightly wrapped chest.

  "On deck," the man shouted. "Captain says, 'Get on deck.' "

  Then he was gone.

  Lysbeth cursed herself for a fool. She cursed herself for blushing as well, and fumbled back into the shirt. When she finished, she fetched the twins and shoved one under her belt.

  Her hips were narrow, but Henrik had been a lean man. Given time she might punch a new hole to loosen the belt, but she could barely squeeze one gun between the dark leather and her waist. Even if she got the other through the belt, she'd never be able to draw them.

  She swore again, this time out loud. It was not a ladylike phrase.

  Marit didn't chide her. Instead, the small woman picked up the scissors and ripped a long cut into the folds of her thick skirts.

  There was a bump followed by thumping noises outside. Men shouted, some in Spanish and Dutch, others in languages Lysbeth didn't understand.

  "Here," Marit extended her hand for a gun. She said, "Just give it to me," when Lysbeth hesitated.

  "Do you know how to fire one of these?"

  Marit sniffed. "Most certainly not."

  "Should I need the gun," Lysbeth explained, "just pull back on this cock and hand it to me. Good?"

  "Fine."

  Marit took the weapon and it quickly disappeared from view. Lysbeth drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders in what she hoped was a manly way, and stepped out of the cabin.

  Lysbeth squinted against the brilliance of the midday sun. She raised an arm to shield her eyes just as something crashed against the side of her head. The blow sent her reeling to bounce off the outer wall of the cabin.

  When
she could see again, Lysbeth was curled on her side with Marit hunched protectively over her. Pain lanced through her head, and she couldn't remember falling to the deck.

  "Pistola, capitan," said the pirate that had struck her.

  Lysbeth's stomach rolled, but if it was from the blow to her head or the motion of the ship, she did not know.

  "Bring it to me," said a man she could not see. He spoke Spanish as well, although his accent was clearly intended for some other language. Arabic, perhaps?

  The pirate kicked Marit, and she shied away with a pained shriek. Then he stood on Lysbeth's hand while tugging the flintlock free of her belt. His feet were as bare as her own. Still, his weight ground her fingers painfully against the deck's wooden planks.

  When he stepped away, Lysbeth cradled her bruised fingers in her other hand, pressing them to her mouth. Her face stung when she touched it. Her fingers came away bright and slick with blood from a split lip.

  "Get him up," the Arab said.

  Lysbeth felt Marit's small hands under her arm. Then larger, strong hands hoisted her roughly to her feet. She thought to act like a man, not knowing how an injured man should stand. Her stomach rolled again, and she would have fallen, but Marit was there to steady her.

  "Does anyone else wish to give to me a fine pistol?" the Arab asked. "No? Very well, where was I? Ah, yes! Introductions."

  He was a small man. Rounded near the middle, but small all over with short legs and short arms. He had a fringe of greying hair surrounding a bald patch that was deeply tanned from long hours in the weather.

  He turned to Captain Vargas, and it appeared as if he was returning to a conversation rather than starting one.

  Vargas towered over the pirate, and the captain's dark eyes looked stricken. Lysbeth remembered Klaus and the cannon strike that had torn him from the ship. She didn't know if Vargas had seen the helmsman die, but he looked very alone without the ever-present Klaus at his side.

  "Alonso Vargas," the pirate said, "your ship is now the prize of one Gaspar Suarez. Suarez is a temper on loan from hell. He can't piss standing without a drink in the morning. And he'd just as soon sell the lot of you in Algiers."