The Red Siren

by Marylu Tyndall

  No sooner had Lucas disappeared below than another thunderous blast rocked the Red Siren. Faith grabbed the capstan, closing her eyes against the acrid smoke. Even before it cleared, the distant crack of splitting timbers and the boom of falling wood confirmed their success. Dashing to the railing, Faith gazed toward the Flying Dragon, her shape taking form in the dissipating mist. Her foremast was shattered, and fragments of her yards and a tangle of cordage hung to the decks below.

  Crowding around the railing, the pirates waited to see their enemy’s response. Finally, the merchant vessel dipped her colors in surrender.

  Huzzahs and shouts of glee rose from the pirates, and soon the Red Siren crashed alongside the Dutch merchant ship to grapple and board her. Faith moved the prisoners, hands still bound behind their backs, within view of their captain.

  Then, standing with one boot upon the bulwarks, she cocked and pointed her pistol at the head of one of the prisoners—the young man with the plumed hat who had first spoken to Lucas. Sweat broke out above his upper lip where a slight quiver had suddenly taken residence. She longed to assure him she meant him no harm. But instead she yelled across the expanse to the merchantmen. “I will speak to the captain.”

  After muffled protests, a stout man with a barrel chest and a mop of brown hair detached himself from the group of sailors and marched forward. With legs spread apart, he crossed his arms over his chest and cast an anxious glance toward the young man at the barrel end of Faith’s gun.

  “I’m Captain Grainger.” His polite nod belied the fury reddening his face.

  “A pleasure, sir,” Faith said. “Quarter will be granted and your men unharmed, Captain, provided you lay down all your arms and open your hatches. These are my conditions. I suggest you accept them.”

  “Give ’em no quarter,” Morgan squawked from his post, drawing the captain’s gaze.

  With clenched jaw, Captain Grainger turned and surveyed his men before his dark eyes narrowed back upon her. “Very well. You have left me no choice.”

  “Excellent.” Faith lowered her pistol and nodded to Lucas.

  “Prepare to board!” Lucas bellowed as the men armed themselves and crowded at the railing.

  The tiny crew of the Flying Dragon formed a trembling line of acquiescence as they threw their weapons in a pile.

  After ordering two of her men to guard the prisoners, Faith clutched her skirts with one hand, her pistol in the other and led her boarding crew over the bulwarks and into the waist of the ship. She regretted not changing into her breeches, but there had not been enough time.

  With a snap of her fingers, her crew jumped to the task of plundering—an undertaking at which they had become quite proficient. Within an hour, they had hauled up a mountain of chests, crates, and velvet boxes brimming with gold ingots, pearls, spices, and sugar.

  Faith paced before the crew of the Flying Dragon, feeling their gazes scour over her and pierce her like grapeshot whenever she turned her back to them. But she was used to it. They no doubt suffered not only the shock of encountering a female pirate but also the humiliation of being captured by one.

  A wave of guilt tumbled over her, but she shook it off as she always did. No one would suffer injury or loss by her actions save the pockets of rich merchantmen. And neither society nor God had provided any other way to save her and her sisters.

  Lucas began directing the men to transfer the treasure aboard the Red Siren, and one by one, under straining backs and forceful grunts, chests and crates were hoisted over the bulwarks and stowed below in the hold.

  Shielding her eyes, Faith glanced upward. As if mocking her, the sun took on a hurried pace in its descent. Sweat streaked down her neckline, and she tugged at her gown, longing for her billowing white shirt that allowed a breath of air against her skin. Removing her scarf, she dabbed at the perspiration and then tucked the crimson fabric into her belt. To plunder the entire ship would take far too long. Surely by now Mr. Waite would be engaged in a furious search for the missing treasure ship. She gritted her teeth and continued pacing, trying to calm her anxieties. But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a shout blared from the crosstrees of the Red Siren.

  “Cap’n, a sail!”

  Chapter 12

  Swinging about, Faith marched to the railing and raised her spyglass. Surging pyramids of white canvas taunted her from the masts of a British sloop of war. The Union Jack stretched proudly atop the foremast, stiff in the afternoon wind. Close-hauled to the northerly breeze and listing to starboard under the weight of it, the ship bore down upon them at full speed.

  “Blast!” Faith clenched her fists and stormed across the deck, scanning the pirates who had halted in their tracks.

  “Who is she, mistress?” Lucas’s normally rigid features crumpled into a frown.

  Faith eyed the crates of treasure crowding the deck, ignoring the merchant sailors muttering as they cast hopeful glances over their shoulders toward the British warship.

  Her crew had taken barely half the treasure. But there was no time. She glanced back toward the oncoming ship.

  “’Tis the HMS Enforcer,” Faith hissed through clenched teeth. “Back to the ship, men!”

  “But what ’bout the treasure, Cap’n?” Wilson complained.

  “Aye, we can’t be leavin’ all this loot!” Lambert added sharply, the other pirates grunting in agreement.

  Throwing her hands to her hips, Faith strutted toward her men. “Can you spend it whilst you dangle at the end of a noose, Mr. Lambert?”

  Lambert’s expression soured. The pirates’ gazes shot toward the HMS Enforcer as its threatening silhouette loomed larger on the horizon.

  “Ye ’eard the cap’n,” Lucas shouted. “Unhook these grapnels and be gone wit’ ye now. Back to the ship!”

  Morgan’s loud squawk shrieked over the decks of the Red Siren. “Run fer yer lives! Run fer yer lives!” His urgent plea hastened the men as they clambered over the bulwarks, casting yearning glances toward the abandoned treasure.

  “Lucas, free the prisoners. Quickly, and then prepare to unfurl all sail.” Faith heard the squeak of panic in her voice as she stormed across the deck and assisted Bates, Kane, and Strom with the grapnels. She had no plans to find herself at the end of a noose either, nor to lose everything she had worked so hard to acquire. She glanced at Bates, who battled to pry loose a hook embedded in the splintered deck. “Best get over to the ship and ready the guns.”

  He rubbed his chin and gave her an understanding look and an “Aye” before he tottered toward the Red Siren.

  Taking over for Bates, Faith struggled with the iron claw as the snap of sails buffeted her ears. When the last grapnel was freed, Kane and Strom tossed them over to the Red Siren and flew over the railings after them. The ships groaned as they began to pull apart. The freed prisoners stood beside Captain Grainger, glaring at Faith.

  “Come aboard, mistress!” Lucas yelled at her from the railing, extending his hand to assist her across the wobbling bulwarks.

  Faith shot one more glance at the oncoming British warship. Her stomach tightened. The sunlight glinted off the tawny lines of the vessel’s sleek body, sharpening each detail. The gaping mouths of nine charred muzzles punched through her starboard hull in a threatening display of cannon power.

  Dashing toward Lucas, Faith suddenly halted, spun around, and returned to the captain of the merchant ship. Plucking the scarf from her belt, she handed it to him—a scarlet banner fluttering in the breeze. He fixed her with a cold eye but did not take it. The jeering gleam in his eyes taunted her.

  “Forgive me for cutting our visit so short, Captain,” Faith said, hiding her rising fear behind an angelic smile. “But if you will do me one last favor and give this to the dear captain of the HMS Enforcer, with my compliments?”

  With brows pinched, he hesitated, and from the look in his eye, Faith thought he intended to seize her. If it weren’t for the click of several muskets cocking behind her, he might have done just
that.

  With a grunt, he grabbed her scarf instead.

  “Come on, Cap’n. . .hurry!” Grayson yelled.

  The ships began to separate as the wind caught the sails in a series of jaunty snaps.

  Lifting her skirts, she darted to the railing then froze. The chasm between the ships yawned a gaping blue mouth that was now too far to traverse. Several pirates stared at her from the other side, fear sparking in their gazes. Two of them still held their muskets firm upon the merchantmen.

  Suddenly the air reverberated with the thunder of a twelve-pounder.

  Faith turned to see a jet of white smoke drifting above one of the Enforcer’s guns. The shot splashed into the sea just ten yards before their bow. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Standing atop the crosstrees, Lucas tossed her a rope. She reached for it, but it fell just short of her grasp. Cursing, he hauled it back in.

  Below her, the indigo water growled like the carnivorous mouth of a raging monster.

  The Red Siren drifted farther away.

  Faith gulped and thought about praying, but she knew God would pay her no mind, especially in these circumstances. She flexed her hands, trying to stop the tingling fear that numbed her fingers.

  Lucas swung the rope again. This time she caught it. Clutching it, she took a running start and threw herself over the side. The rope snapped as her weight pulled it taut. The coarse fibers tore the skin on her palms as she flew through the air and swung her legs high.

  Her boots thudded on the main deck of the Red Siren, accompanied by the cheers of her crew.

  h

  Dajon stood at the quarterdeck railing, his first and second lieutenants flanking him, mimicking his stiff posture. He clenched his jaw and tried to still the fury boiling in his stomach and keep his steady gaze upon the Dutch merchant vessel—the ship he’d been assigned to protect, the ship that was now rubbing hulls with that thieving imp of a pirate.

  “She’s fleeing, Captain.” One of the officers halted at attention on the deck below, where sailors hustled to their stations.

  “Fire a warning shot across her bow.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The man touched his hat and shouted an order down the companionway.

  A moment later, a gun belched its iron shot in an ear-hammering blast, sending a tremble through the ship. A gust of smoke-laden wind blew over Dajon, stealing his breath.

  “’Tis like they knew exactly where she would be,” Borland remarked.

  “Indeed.” Dajon pounded his fists upon the railing. What were the odds that this pirate would be in exactly the right place at the right time? Though many pirates cruised the known shipping lanes, they usually came upon their prey purely by accident and would go days, sometimes months without a conquest. Either this blackguard was extremely lucky, or he had been privy to some ill-gotten information. Dajon hated to consider that he had a traitor on board his ship.

  He leveled his telescope upon the pirate ship. The captain had not heeded his warning, but Dajon had not expected him to. He had yet to see a pirate surrender. Most preferred a glorious death in battle to the humiliation of swinging from a noose. He scanned the Vliegende Draeck. Her foremast lay in a crumpled heap upon her deck, but it appeared she had suffered no additional damage. Even so, her speed would be severely crippled, and without his protection, she would be easy sport for the next roving bandit.

  “Are you going after her, sir?” Excitement lifted the voice of Jamieson, his second lieutenant.

  Dajon grimaced. Oh, how he wanted to. How he wanted to put that rapacious rogue in his place. After all, wasn’t that what he had been sent to do on these colonial waters?

  But he could not leave the merchant ship.

  The pirate ship made a swift turn and promptly went about on a southern tack. Her captain had wisely chosen not to risk passing between Dajon’s ship and the coast, where they might be trapped. Instead, she ventured out to sea. With her masts a crown of white canvas, she stuck out a rebellious tongue of white foam at him from her mouth at the stern.

  “Captain?” A wild entreaty glittered in Jamieson’s eyes.

  Dajon snorted and clamped tight fingers over the hilt of his sword. Everything inside of him ached to give the command to pursue the villains, but his orders. . .

  “Nay, Jamieson. With the wind on her quarter, she will be far too swift for us.” Dajon heard the hesitancy in his voice, as if he were trying to convince himself of that, as well.

  Borland twisted his greased mustache. “You should give chase, Captain. You may not have another chance.”

  Dajon leveled his brow as he scowled at the fleeing bandit. “I shall have another chance, Mr. Borland; you can wager on that. But for now, I cannot abandon the Dutch ship. I have orders to protect her.”

  Borland snorted.

  “Begging your pardon, Captain,” Jamieson said with a snort, “but it seems you are a bit late for that.”

  Dajon gritted his teeth. “We can yet redeem some of our honor, as it appears from the jumble of crates strewed about the deck of the Dutch ship, the pirates did not have time to take all the treasure.”

  The pirate ship tacked to larboard, catching Dajon’s eye, and he raised the scope, focusing on the fleeing vessel. His heart leaped at the familiar lines of her hull, the point of her bowsprit, the way she glided through the water. He shifted the glass to the bow, where the words Red Siren flashed before him in bold crimson.

  He knew that ship. It was the Lady Em—his father’s merchant ship—he was sure of it.

  Hot blood gushed through his veins.

  Upon the foredeck, a woman in a red dress stood facing the wind. She wore a large floppy hat shoved so low on her head that neither her face nor even a strand of her hair could be glimpsed. As if sensing his scrutiny, she turned briefly and gave him a full navy salute before swerving back around. Yet he could not make out her face.

  “By thunder!” Dajon whacked the spyglass on the railing. “Of all the gall!”

  “What is it, Captain?” Borland asked.

  “’Tis my father’s ship!”

  Both officers gave him curious looks, and some of the sailors on the deck below halted and stared at him as if surprised by their captain’s sudden outburst.

  “That pirate sails my father’s merchant ship—the same one taken off Portsmouth nigh five years ago.” Dajon doffed his bicorn and wiped the sweat from his brow. Since he had not shared the humiliating story with anyone, he wasn’t surprised by the incredulous gasps coming from his men.

  “The great Captain Waite overtaken by a pirate?” Borland mocked. “I would never have thought it possible.”

  “Many ships have similar lines, Captain,” Jamieson said. “How could you possibly recognize your father’s?”

  “Because regardless of the blasphemous name painted on her bow and the vermin that infest her, I would know my father’s ship anywhere, just as I would know that woman pirate anywhere.”

  “A woman pirate, you say?” Jamieson gave a humorless laugh. “So the tales are true.”

  Borland grabbed the spyglass and held it to his eye. “Ah yes, there is a woman aboard her—a trace of a red dress upon the forecastle. Yet perhaps she is the captain’s mistress.”

  “Nay, she is no mere mistress.” Dajon pictured her insolent salute, and fury hammered through his head until he felt it would explode—fury at how she had beaten him five years before, fury at the agony he had suffered because of it, and fury that she still scavenged the seas with such arrogance—and in his father’s ship! Intolerable. But—he felt a grin tugging at his lips—she had made a fatal error in bringing her band of brigands overseas to terrorize colonial waters.

  For Dajon was no longer a man to be trifled with.

  “We have no choice but to pursue her, Captain.” Jamieson swore. “This insult cannot go unanswered. You must retrieve your father’s ship.”

  Borland grinned. “So we have finally crossed paths with the famous pirate ship the Red Siren, and her capta
in is a woman, after all.” A malicious satisfaction beamed from his eyes, giving Dajon pause. “A most exciting day.”

  Dajon stiffened his jaw. “Exciting” was the last term he would use. Every muscle within him twitched to give chase and bring the vixen to justice. But he must obey naval code. He must not allow emotion to rule over him.

  Ever again.

  “Bring us alongside the Dutchman, if you please, Mr. Borland.”

  Jamieson’s disgruntled gaze darted first to Borland then to Dajon. “But, Captain, she is within our reach.”

  “Never fear, Mr. Jamieson. I have no doubt we have not seen the last of the Red Siren,” Dajon said.

  Borland turned and bellowed orders below, sending men up to lower topsails.

  By the time the HMS Enforcer anchored keel to keel with the Flying Dragon, the Red Siren was but a speck on the horizon. As Dajon climbed into the longboat and gave the order to shove off, his neck and back ached from the tense rage that had spiked through him the past hour.

  Once aboard the Flying Dragon, he adjusted his blue coat, threw back his shoulders, and marched over to take his verbal lashing from the captain.

  “We thank you kindly for your swift assistance.” The captain of the Dutchman smirked in obvious disgust. “Albeit too little, too late.”

  “Captain Waite, at your service.” Dajon removed his hat. “We were told to meet you off Hilton Head, Captain. . . ?”

  “Grainger.”

  “Captain Grainger.” Dajon repeated the name between gritted teeth. “When you were not there, I made all haste to find you.”

  “Made haste or not, ’tis no matter to me. As you can see, you are too late.” He waved a weathered hand over the barrels and crates still crowding the deck. “That pirate ran off with half my goods.”

  “And would have taken the rest if we had not arrived when we did,” Dajon reminded him, hoping to put an end to the impudent man’s accusations.

  “Aye, I’ll grant you that.” The captain spit off to the side. “But she took most of me pearls—and the rare conch ones, to boot. They would ’ave brought a grand price.”