by Regan Walker
Crossing the short distance to the chest where she’d fingered the volumes the night before, she found a wealth of novels, including Sir Walter Scott’s The Black Dwarf. At the bottom of the chest lay six volumes of Gibbon's Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. She took the first one and turned to face him.
“It appears your interests in reading are varied, Captain. I did not expect so grand a selection.”
“As you must know, Miss McConnell, long voyages and smooth seas allow much time,” he murmured, still bent over his desk.
His midnight hair had fallen onto his forehead, making her wonder what he’d been like as a boy, the one his father’s crew had dubbed “the Raven.” And for a moment she considered what it would be like to love the man he’d become. Startled by her own thoughts, she shook her head. What had she been thinking? Had she forgotten what the English did to her family? Had she forgotten about Ben?
“Yes, Captain. A long voyage certainly leaves time for reading and reflection.”
Chapter 9
His hands steady on the ship’s wheel, Roberto Cofresí gazed into the distant horizon, seeing the white dot he knew was a sail. Pulling the spyglass from his waist where he’d tucked it into his sash, he studied the ship coming closer. Sí! A merchant ship riding heavy in the water, weighed down by her cargo.
Quickly he shouted orders that would set the Retribución on a course to intersect the path of the other ship. When the ships came within sighting distance, as if unaware of the danger, the merchant captain unfurled the British Red Ensign. The action only amused Roberto, who gave his quartermaster, Portalatin, the wheel. Taking his hatchet from his waist, he began sharpening the blade as his schooner drew ever closer to its prey.
A few moments later, sheathing his axe at his waist, he shouted, “Raise the standard!” The black flag ascended the mast, the skull and crossbones making clear his intent. The ships were so close he could hear the shouted orders from the merchant captain to his crew, carried on the wind, ordering his men to their fire muskets at the Retribución. Roberto was astonished. To fire on a pirate ship was asking for a violent end—and all who sailed the sea knew it. It was also for naught. The muskets fired, sending white smoke into the air and shot toward them, but so bad was their aim that all the balls fell short of their target, landing in the water feet from his ship.
“Very foolish, mi capitán,” Roberto uttered under his breath as his ship closed the distance to the merchant ship, now his for the taking. The English crew struggled to reload their muskets and Roberto yelled the next order.
“Run out the guns!” Familiar with the course of action that would follow the raising of his standard, his crew anticipated him, bringing the guns into place even as he’d issued the order. “Fire!” Roberto ordered. The air filled with white smoke as the balls shot across the small distance, ripping through the sails of the English merchantman and shattering the mast. Confusion reigned on the defenseless ship, its bell clanging loudly in alarm, as Roberto ordered the Retribución brought smoothly alongside the other vessel. Slinging grappling hooks over the rail, his crew locked the two ships together in a dance that would lead only to death.
Hatchet in hand and followed by his men, Roberto boarded the English ship in a single leap as her crew still fumbled with their muskets. Pieces of mast and spars, fractured by the Retribución’s guns, lay strewn about the deck along with wounded and dying men. The English captain stood amidships, covered with soot from the blast, bravely but ignorantly urging his crew to meet the pirates’ concerted attack. They stood not a chance.
Letting loose the blood-curdling screams that sent most seamen over the side, his pirates raised their knives and machetes and cut a bloody swath through the English crew. Wielding his hatchet like an extension of his arm, Roberto sliced through the air, sending his sharpened blade into the neck of the English captain before the man could even fire his pistol, nearly severing his head. Blood splattered in all directions as the defeated captain fell to the deck of his ship. In a matter of minutes the deck was consigned to the dead English crew, Roberto’s pirates standing over them with satisfied smiles.
“Take a few men below and search the hold for any who hide,” Roberto called to Portalatin, whose dark head rose above the others. Not one man of the English crew would be allowed to remain alive, though Roberto need not tell his men any women or children would be spared. He had a code all his men knew they defied at their peril.
“Aye, Capitán,” Portalatin acknowledged as he wiped the blood from his face. It was not his.
Roberto sent the rest of his crew below with orders to bring up the cargo and valuables. A few minutes later, his quartermaster stepped through the hatch with a boy in tow.
“Found this one in the captain’s cabin,” said Portalatin.
Roberto considered the cabin boy standing on the deck, his white blond hair blowing in the wind and his wide blue eyes full of fear as he looked at the bodies lying on the deck and then at Roberto. Surprise was reflected in the boy’s eyes when he realized the pirate captain who stood before him was as fair in coloring as any of the English crew.
Speaking in English, Roberto said, “Have no fear, boy. You will live.” And though he rarely explained his actions, he added, “Your captain was a foolish man or he and his crew would yet be alive.” It should have been unnecessary for him to take the life of the English crew. Most merchantmen were not prepared to fight a pirate, nor so stupid, but if one was he would quickly learn El Pirata Cofresí was not to be thwarted.
The boy said not a word, his wide-eyed gaze turning again toward the carnage around him.
Once the search for treasure was completed, Roberto’s crew began to transfer the captured goods to the hold of their ship. He watched the procession for a few moments, gratified to see the large wooden chests being carried aboard, then placed his hand on the shoulder of the frightened boy and gently guided him across the plank.
From the deck of the Retribución, Roberto gave the order for his crew to bore holes below the waterline in the hull of the English ship to sink her. He would not take the damaged merchantman as a prize and had no intention of the hulk being found. The boy would be blindfolded until he reached his destination.
Roberto glanced again at his bloody hatchet and shrugged. He had little regret. It was enough he had spared the boy. With every ship he seized, he felt the satisfaction of having gained some measure of justice for the crime committed by the English against his family.
The rape his sister would never forget.
He could still see the tears streaking down Juana’s beautiful face, the bruises on her tender flesh, the torn dress and the shame in her eyes. He had only been a boy, but a burning rage had taken hold of him that day. The vicious slap across his face and the hard abuse he had received from the English sailors when he’d ignorantly sought justice from their captain had only hardened his heart for the retribution he would one day seek.
A seething anger, unabated in the years since, still burned within him. A sardonic smile crossed his face as he watched the merchant ship sink. Aye, the Retribución was aptly named. The merchant captains who plied the waters of the Caribbean Sea, save for the Spanish, feared El Pirata Cofresí, while the people of Cabo Rojo called him héroe. Sharing their seized treasure with the poor families of Porto Rico, the crew of the Retribución put food in the bellies of the island’s children, and for that they were revered and protected.
He set his hands on the wheel, turning it to the south as the sails above him billowed with wind, carrying his small, fast schooner into Mona Passage lying between Santo Domingo and Porto Rico. Today was a grand day, the sun beaming down from a clear blue sky, and in his hold a treasure of fine cloth, jewelry and silver. He was pleased.
Soon he and his crew would reach Isla Mona and the caves that were his guarida, his refuge carved deep into the high cliffs soaring hundreds of feet above the waves rushing to shore. The formidable sight always stirred him.
He smiled,
thinking of the rich harvest of prize ships that the spring had brought. His people would fare well. But deep inside, Roberto felt a rising discontent. He had enough treasure. Now his desire was for a life with more meaning and a woman of his own.
“Capitán!” shouted Portalatin, rousing Roberto from his musings. “Do we stay the night?”
“No, we unload and sail to Cabo Rojo.” Roberto intended to stow his spoils in the caves above the beach until he could arrange for their sale. It was his village that called to him. “I want to anchor in Boquerón. I have a taste for Juana’s empanadillas.” His mouth watered at the memory of the crescent-shaped turnovers filled with lobster and crab that were his sister’s specialty. All of Cabo Rojo knew of his sister’s cooking.
Casting a grin at his bos’n, Manuel, Roberto said to his crew, “Our newly wedded friend here must deliver the English boy to Father Antonio before he can hurry home to his bride.”
The bos’n made no reply except to shyly gaze toward the approaching cliffs.
Portalatin laughed along with the rest of the crew. “Aye, he was little use to us today for his thoughts were only of the beautiful Maria.”
“All will be well, Manuel,” Roberto consoled. “I will send you to Father Antonio with silver enough for his coffers and the English boy’s expenses, and afterward, Maria will be waiting for you.”
His bos’n visibly relaxed and smiled.
Roberto gave the command to heave to as they slipped into the hidden cove, where they would lower the boat that would carry ashore the seized cargo. As he did, his eye caught the reflection from his boarding axe leaning against the base of the binnacle, its blade still dripping with the blood of the English captain.
***
Tara stood at the rail of the Wind Raven as the ship’s bow parted the waters and glided toward Hamilton Harbor, the main port in Bermuda. Beside her, Mr. Ainsworth leaned against the brightwork and raised a spyglass toward the land in the distance. She liked the first mate with the easy smile and laughter-filled eyes. He was not so unsettling as his captain.
In the distance, Tara could see a swath of green rising from the azure blue waters. A glimmer from the spyglass the first mate held caught her eye and she turned to study it more closely. The first draw of the long brass device bore an inscription, though the script was too small to read from where she stood.
“That’s a fine instrument you have, Mr. Ainsworth.” Tara had seen many spyglasses—each of the men in her family had one—but this elegant polished brass, extending well over a foot, was exquisite.
“’Twas a gift from the captain,” he said, handing the instrument to her.
She carefully accepted what was obviously a treasured piece and read the inscription: To Russ, my right arm and friend. May you know only fair winds and following seas. Nick. She took a quick look through the eyepiece and noted the clarity of the land she could now see coming closer. “A useful gift.” Then handing it back, “Surely you earned it.”
“The captain can be a generous man, Miss McConnell. I had only begun to sail with him on the Wind Raven when this showed up in my cabin, but we had long known each other, having both sailed with his father. We faced many battles against the French together, both for his father and then on Nick’s ship when he got the Raven. And we are, indeed, friends. I hope it will always be so.”
Tara had sensed the bond between the captain and his first mate and wondered about the captain’s father. Was he dark and brooding, hardened by a life at sea like his son? Did he, too, create fierce loyalties in his men?
“What was it like sailing with the captain’s father?”
The first mate seemed to think for a moment and then pursed his lips before answering. “It was never dull. Simon Powell is a skilled captain who was once a privateer. He is fair with his crew and devoted to his wife and his sons. It was a privilege to serve under him. I suppose to know the Raven is to know his father. The two are much alike, save the father has golden hair as well as eyes and his features are a bit more rugged. Of course, he has some gray now.”
She had come to admire the captain’s leadership so perhaps this was its origin. “A man not unlike my father,” she said as her thoughts turned to the man who had raised her. Perhaps what attracted her to the captain were the qualities he shared with her father. She thought again. Though he did have a temper, Sean McConnell was not arrogant nor did he constantly frown and order her about.
Tara returned her gaze to the sea, hearing the sails above her filling with wind, the rigging straining, the masts creaking and the water rushing against the prow. She was so comfortable with the sounds of a ship underway they often faded into the background, but for some reason today her senses were keenly aware of the small noises that had always been a part of her life. And with them there was now a vague yearning for more, something that might wait just over the horizon. She was aware, even before her father had noted it, that her body was changing, taking on the form of a woman. Captain Powell and his kisses had only made her more acutely aware of this change. Not for the first time she wondered how long she could sail as one of the crew on her family’s ships. Perhaps those days were coming to an end. She hoped not.
The day was sunny and over warm, causing her to be grateful for the wind that blew wisps of her hair across her face. She brushed them aside and settled one hand on the rail as her mind filled with memories of all that this island meant to her countrymen. She shuddered knowing she was entering the lion’s den.
Less than three years before, the English Royal Navy had sailed from Bermuda to launch its attack on Washington. The American privateers, including her brothers, responded by seizing the unprotected cargo of Bermuda's merchant fleet. A few months after the English had burned the White House, they again left their base in Bermuda, this time to sail into Chesapeake Bay to attack Baltimore, Tara’s home and the base of many American privateers.
Tara still remembered the night she’d stayed awake listening to the mortar shells exploding in the distance as the British attacked Fort McHenry. Rain fell in torrents and thunder rent the sky but she could still hear the bombs exploding in the night. All the lights were out in the city but the flare from the rockets lit up the sky. She and her family had not known until the next morning what a sweet victory was theirs. Mr. Key, a friend of her family, was so inspired by the sight of the American flag rising above the fort when dawn came, he wrote the poem “Defence of Fort McHenry” that had inspired them all. Pride welled in Tara’s chest as she recalled how the Americans had rallied to repay the English for taking Washington.
“A beautiful harbor, is it not?” said Mr. Ainsworth, tossing her one of his many smiles.
Tara looked again at the sight before her. They had sailed closer to the island that was their destination. Scattered across the entrance to the picturesque harbor were many smaller islands with tree-covered hills. She could see mangroves, junipers and palm trees. Buildings rose up between the greenery, painted in pale shades of yellow, pink, coral and green. The white stepped roofs rendered the architecture unique, reminding her of her father’s vivid descriptions from his early voyages to the island.
“Yes, I suppose it is beautiful, even if it is home to the English Navy in this part of the world.”
“Surely, Miss McConnell, you must recognize the disagreement between our two countries is long over,” he said with a teasing grin.
“My brother George would agree with you, Mr. Ainsworth, but then he is more pragmatic than I am. The memory of the war so close to home is still too vivid. I was just sixteen when the English attacked Baltimore and I shall never forget it.” The words came with a shudder she was powerless to deny.
“Yes, I can well imagine that must have been frightening. But it is over now. There will be no more battles between our countries. The captain plans to introduce you to his friends in Paget, not far from the harbor. I met them last year. Some, though English, are quite fond of Americans and have been educated in your country. Oh, and you’ll h
ave a real bath and a comfortable room with windows. Now isn’t that something to look forward to?”
Tara smiled. She would enjoy a real bath after weeks of being at sea, and a few days on land would not go amiss. “It certainly is, sir. For that, I will be truly grateful.”
A few minutes later they entered the harbor, and Tara asked, “Will we be mooring close in?”
“That depends,” said the first mate.
She turned to study the brown eyes of the enigmatic officer. “On what?”
The first mate looked toward the helm, where the captain had the wheel. “On whether the captain likes the wind he has enough to sail her straight to the dock with our makeshift foremast.”
“He can do that?”
“He can. The only other captain I’ve seen do it as well is his father, who until his son surpassed him was the best merchant captain in England. There’s no one like the Raven with a ship, Miss McConnell. ’Tis almost magical the way he handles the helm. Why, it’s like watching a man with a—” He stopped abruptly and looked at her sheepishly. Tara could swear she saw him blush and realized what he’d been about to say.
“A woman? You were going to say like a man with a woman, weren’t you, Mr. Ainsworth?” she teased.
He shrugged. “I was going to say like a man with a woman he loves.”
* * *
Tara had watched in fascination as Nicholas Powell sailed the Wind Raven right into its berth alongside the dock, shouting orders to his crew to drop sails as they approached. Using the rudder and a few sails to gently guide the ship in, he’d ordered the last sails doused as the mooring lines were tossed to the dock. The maneuver had been so smooth he’d made it look easy, but she knew it was not. After the crew’s loud cheer for their captain’s mastery of his ship, and the praise for his expertise shouted from those standing on shore, the captain hied himself off to the dockside tavern with a group of his men. Tara supposed after what they’d all endured it was a gesture of good will for the captain to lift a tankard in toast to their deliverance from the storm.