by Andrea Jones
Yulunga hunkered down to grasp Liza’s hem. Finding a fistful of something, he looked up at Hook. “Sir! It’s jewelry.”
Hook advanced on Liza. Perspiring, Hanover attempted to divert the blame before the dam burst.
“Don’t dare touch my daughter…again!”
With his rapier, Hook whisked off a hank of Liza’s hair. She shied as her earlobe was exposed. “Pierced. Yet you won’t allow her to wear my earrings. What a shame, when the false bottom of your sea chest conceals some superlative pieces. Not to mention those stowed in your crate of medical books.” Hook leered. “I had intended to bestow them upon my own mistress.”
Liza’s hands flew to her ears.
“You are barbaric, Hook, to humiliate a girl. For shame!”
“Exactly, Doctor. For shame. And how will you conceal her shame— once she begins to show it?”
The observers began to gossip. Hissing like a flock of geese, the Frenchmen whispered the translation to one another. LeCorbeau rolled his eyes heavenward. Yulunga pulled Liza back, casting his gaze down to study her. Her white face blushed now, as her secrets broke open to color it.
Hook pressed his advantage. “My guess is you intended your new wife to pose as mother. A convenient cover. Jill couldn’t refuse, could she?” He sent a solemn look to Jill. “She believed the child might be mine.”
Hook held Jill’s gaze, then continued.
“Nor could your daughter refuse you. Under your ‘protection,’ she could hide what you’d done to her…however ardently she accepted your advances.” Whispers rustled again, in wonder at first, then in condemnation. Liza’s head sank, as if her neck were too slender a stem to hold such a flower.
Livid, Liza’s father defended her, and his honor. “I will silence you, Sir, if it is the last thing I do.” He slashed his knife at Hook’s gullet. Hook caught it in his claw, with a chink of metal.
“Not to worry,” answered Hook. “When I’ve finished with you, your deeds will live on— in your ill-gotten child.” Arm against arm, it was a battle of strength now. As their limbs shook with effort, Hook forced Hanover’s dagger lower. “Or would it be, grandchild?” Clicking his tongue, Hook frowned in mock reproof. “So terribly complicated, isn’t it?”
“Your corruption knows no bounds. You raped her!” Locked together, knife and claw grappled.
Hook managed a laugh. “My dear doctor. I have never found it necessary to force a female.” With a twist of his hook, he released the surgeon’s blade. “But I bow to you. You are accomplished. A subtle seducer.”
Hanover sputtered, “What depravity will you not plumb to discredit me in my wife’s eyes?”
“What depravity have you not shown me?”
In answer, Hanover sliced his knife at Hook’s cheek. The captain glided away.
“All those nights, as I lay chained in your daughter’s bed. You both found it preferable that she should sleep in yours.” Hook stepped backward, his rapier dancing, repelling Hanover’s advance. But, blocked by the table, Hook was forced to a halt. Hedging at the point of Hanover’s blade, he leaned backward, teetering over the wine-stained surface.
Smee held up the torch, ready to throw it, and Jill clutched at Cecco. Hook swiveled to look at her, and for one instant, they locked eyes. Hanover drove again, this time wielding his dagger.
Hook snagged the mainmast with his claw. Hanover’s knifepoint gouged his shirt. The fabric moaned as Hook vaulted over the table, wedding feast and all. He moved so lightly that he seemed to float. The next moment, he stood on the other side.
“But all this talk makes one so thirsty.” Setting his rapier on the table, he took up a silver goblet. “Drink, Doctor?” Hook raised the cup in a toast and enjoyed a draught.
Murmurs of admiration rose from the sailors. Hanover scowled. “I shall drink when you are dead.” With his sword, he struck the goblet from Hook’s hand. It sprayed red drops as it clattered on the deck. Hanover stabbed his dagger down, plunging it through the handle of Hook’s rapier. The dagger sank into the table top, pinning Hook’s weapon there. Hanover jeered, “My wife and I will drink together. To your memory.”
“Do you refer to the wife you took today? Or to the wife you murdered?”
Jill went rigid. She knew from Hook’s expression— he wasn’t bluffing. The men agitated, eyeing the surgeon with fresh mistrust. Liza kept her half-shorn head down.
Hanover’s knuckles went white on the knife. “You foul liar.”
“Is it I or you who lie? Did I not hear you confess to your daughter? Allow me to refresh your memory. It was the same morning you determined to starve me to death…and threatened to disfigure the girl if she spoke another word.”
Liza turned away, burying the face she had preserved by perfidy in Yulunga’s chest. He didn’t have to restrain her anymore. She clung to him. His arm settled on her shoulders. He freed his ax from his belt.
Jill covered her open mouth, but her horror couldn’t be concealed. Cecco voiced an untranslatable oath.
Weapons jingled as the pirates shifted, indignant. A scheme to murder their captain was heinous enough. Starvation struck them as cowardly. And for any man to mar a girl’s beauty, a man’s own daughter, made even these ruthless pirates feel sick. But the thought that the girl they’d been compelled to respect had been used after all, and used most vilely— by her sire— was past bearing. LeCorbeau’s crew, too, cried out in disapproval. In French, Italian, and English, Hanover heard himself reviled.
The French captain fanned himself with a handkerchief, his mouth set as if tasting bad wine. In the rigging above him, the blond sailor thrust his knife in his teeth. His scuttling descent was soon discouraged by the hands of his shipmates, but their voices rose, urging Hook to battle. This fight was fated for two men alone.
Hook needed no encouragement. Armed with only his claw now, he called, “Mr. Yulunga. I believe this cask must be broached.” Veering to starboard, Hook turned to watch.
The African obliged. Lifting his ax, he steadied his aim, then let it fly. The cask cracked open in a splintering of wood. Wine burst from the wreckage to flood over the deck. The heady scent of it escaped, and scarlet drops speckled the doctor’s sleeve. As the men watched the flow, Hook’s boots trod in the pool. He seized the ax. A moment later, its blade stood embedded in the table. In two shards, the knife bounced along the surface, tinkling against the goblets, and Hook held his rapier in his hand.
Faced with the ax, Hanover had retreated. Now he rounded the mast to confront his nemesis. Flecks of wine, like innocent blood, stained his shirtsleeve. He said, “In direst circumstances, I have striven to remain a gentleman. The dishonor rests upon you, who brought all this to pass.” One last time, the surgeon took up his stance. “And it is you from whom I demand satisfaction, in blood.”
“Granted.”
Hook drove the doctor aft, leaving a trail of wine-colored footprints. The enemies bent to thrust and pulled back to parry, their eyes exultant, their white sleeves surging high and low, their feet scuffling to the rhythm of their blades.
This time, Hook’s efforts to trip Hanover came to nothing. The doctor stepped carefully in his soft shoes, feeling for the rise of the hatches and treading with grace upon them. Sensing the column of the capstan looming, Hanover maneuvered so that Hook backed toward it. Leaping aside, Hook narrowly avoided it. Then subtly, surely, seeming to be drawn, he drew the doctor sternward. Hook had two birds to kill. One stone should do it.
Watching from the bow, Nibs spied his chance. He snatched the last standing cup from the table, then sidled down portside to join Jill.
Cecco spotted him. As the duelists neared, he urged Jill toward her son. At Cecco’s signals, the other men cleared the stern, and Nibs set his arm around his mother. She allowed him to pull her to the side. Turning back to Cecco, Jill saw him kiss his fingertips and release them toward her. Clearly, he felt his own trouble approaching. Cecco wanted his love well away from it.
Hanover pressed Hook
toward the quarterdeck. Hook’s heel thumped against the lowest stair. Ascending backward, he fought on, moving within the confines of the banisters. With a grim smile, Hanover battled his way up the steps. At last, he held the pirate at a disadvantage.
But only for a moment. Hook swung his hook down and dug it into the rail. Supported now, he leaned out over the surgeon to rain blows upon him. Hanover’s arm was tiring. Hook’s too. Their grips were damp with perspiration, and each man’s breath labored. In a sudden move, Hanover flung back his rapier to circle it high, and then he heaved it down to the left.
Hook’s eyes flared. Buried in the wood of the railing, his hook trapped his arm. Hanover’s blade came whistling. Hook tugged, but couldn’t free himself. With a sickening thud, Hanover’s sword split the captain’s cuff, embedding itself in Hook’s arm.
Hanover watched, victorious. But the bloom of blood he expected never appeared. He had struck not flesh, but the wooden form of Hook’s harness.
Jarred by the blow, Hook’s wrist throbbed, the bone ached. Yet now it was Hanover whose weapon was caught; Hook’s rapier remained free. With one arm anchored to the rail, Hook made a vicious swipe— two, three. Hanover had to let go of his hilt and jump five steps backward, to land on the deck with a thump.
Hook stabbed his rapier into the stair. The weapon stood swaying as it waited by his side. His hand was free now to struggle with Hanover’s sword, wedged in his wooden wrist. The surgeon moved to snatch Hook’s rapier, but Hook aimed a kick, and Hanover backed away.
Searching for a weapon, Hanover quickly considered, then raced to portside. Although Jill’s blood pounded, she stood regal. She reached for the silver goblet in Nibs’ hand. Cecco watched from his post beside the stair, and drew his cutlass. Setting one foot forward, he braced, ready to come to Jill’s aid.
Hanover grasped her shoulders. He tossed a glance at Hook, who still strove to free himself from the stairway. Hanover pulled Jill close.
“My darling. When this nightmare is over, you will— you must— see the truth.”
“Johann, I have told you. You married a pirate.” Jill’s gaze was earnest. “And so did I.”
Cecco snorted at her words. Amused in spite of the circumstances, he flashed his gypsy smile. But it faded as he continued to observe.
“Yes. You are exactly the woman I want.” Hanover’s smile turned ironic. “My finest prize.”
Jill offered him the wedding cup, and with his fingers covering hers, Hanover drank. “Thank you, Madam. Just what I needed.” He slid Hook’s jeweled dagger from her sash. “And I need this to finish it.”
Cecco stepped closer. Jill gasped at the loss of her knife, but Hanover was in a hurry. He placed a kiss on her lips, then snatched a belaying pin from the rail, a slender but sturdy club. Wielding it and Hook’s own weapon, he left his wife, to slay her stubborn lover. Jill watched, raising one black glove to press her mouth. Cecco’s smoky gaze followed the surgeon. Silently, he tucked his cutlass back in his belt. He might not need it after all.
Left alone, Hook had loosed Hanover’s sword from his brace. He glanced about him. Seeing no danger to himself or to Jill, he strained to yank his claw from the banister, driven deeper by the force of the surgeon’s hit. With a grunt, he pried it free. Through the railing of the stair, he glimpsed brown, brooding eyes surveying him. As promised, Hook would test Mr. Cecco later. Or rather, his sword would do so.
Now, Hanover posed at the foot of the steps. Hook straightened to focus on his foe. Loose strands of hair escaped Hanover’s ribbon. His scar jagged crimson to his jaw, dwarfing the fresh horizontal cut on his other cheek. Above the beige waistcoat and once-white sleeves, those two dashes of violence on Hanover’s face, old and new, lent him color— along with the jewels held fast in his grip, glowing in a familiar hilt: Hook’s own dagger.
Fire kindled in Hook’s eyes. He advanced, one step downward. The surgeon’s rapier shone in Hook’s one good hand. The moment he had awaited approached.
Hook brandished his enemy’s weapon. Hanover tensed, ready to evade it. But instead of lashing out, the captain flung Hanover’s rapier backward, sending it soaring over the quarterdeck. It landed with a crash and rattled to the rail.
Hanover exclaimed, but before Hook could regain his stance, the surgeon rushed for the stairs, leading with his dagger. Hook freed his own rapier from the step. Hanover slashed his knife sideways, swiping at Hook’s ankles. Hook leapt up and backward, and his sword swooped to stop the knife. Hanover hoisted the belaying pin. As wood chips flew, the pin halted Hook’s blade.
Cruelly, Hanover sliced again, one step higher and aiming for Hook’s knees. Hook jerked backward, upward. Again his steel carved wood from the belaying pin. On the next step, Hanover swung the knife a third time. Hook backed higher to dodge it. More fragments scattered. The next pass sliced within a fraction of Hook’s thigh. The blow Hook delivered exploded the remains of the belaying pin. A chip struck sharp on Hanover’s forehead. He shook himself. Hook loomed at the top of the stairs.
Hanover dove, flinging himself under Hook’s arm. Stretched out on the quarterdeck, he rolled, leapt up, and with all his strength, hurled Hook’s dagger at its master’s heart.
Hook threw himself to the side, smashing on the quarterdeck, and heard the knife cut the air. The next instant, it thunked in the mizzenmast. As Hook bounded up, Hanover dashed to the taffrail to snatch up his rapier.
The air rang with the sound of their swords. But evenly matched, they were evenly tiring. Mindful of the damage wrought by his captivity, Hook had paced himself. It was time to end the game. This was the point he’d left off on that fateful day, the day of his capture. His rapier, so lovingly tended by Smee, felt perfect in his hand. Hook anticipated its next move with pleasure. Polished and primed, its tip was honed to the finest point, eager for just this moment.
Hook thrust out and downward. A long, slender gash opened on the doctor’s face. Crimson liquid leaked, then began to stream from the wound.
Too surprised to feel anything, Hanover slapped a hand over the cut. Blood oozed between his fingers, trickling down to stain his cuff, his cravat, his waistcoat. Incredulous, he pulled his hand away and stared at it. When the pain set in, he clasped his face again, gritting his teeth.
“Damn you, Hook!”
A slow smile spread upon Hook’s face. It grew wide to express his satisfaction. The score was settled, Hook’s vengeance complete.
“Well, Doctor. We have had our duel.”
“It isn’t finished.” Hanover’s palm muffled his voice.
Hook spoke loudly enough for captains, crewmen, and officers to hear, across the decks and up in the rigging. “But it is finished. We have dueled to the death— of your fine reputation.”
Hanover’s breath escaped in a hiss. His face bled, stinging with pain. He clutched his cheek, his eyes wandering among the men as he attended their restiveness.
Hook said, “You’ve less claim to the title of ‘gentleman’ than the lowest swab aboard. And now you bear the mark I have awarded you.” Hook savored his words. “A complete victory.” He raised his sapphire eyes and surveyed the company.
The silence burst like a wave, the ship suddenly awash in celebration. Huzzahs arose from every quarter. The men shook their weapons and thrust their fists in the air. Smee’s red face beamed. Jill’s eyes flamed as she beheld her lover, and then she lowered them. As the deck vibrated with jubilation, Liza leaned against Yulunga, her loyalties torn.
Even L’Ormonde’s men exulted, for the famed Captain Hook lived. With his final stroke, his legend enlarged. Yet, as he’d warned the doctor, Hook wasn’t the same. The sailors could see it in his stance, in his glittering eye, the unkempt blur of his beard. Hook’s ordeal had changed him.
He was stronger.
As the cacophony swelled around him, Hanover seethed. “Your ‘victory’ isn’t quite complete.” His grimace turned to a one-sided sneer. He still tasted the bridal wine. “I have won the woman.” He dropp
ed his bloody hand and thrust again.
Again, the two blades crossed. Hook backed to the stairway, then he lowered his shoulders and barreled into the surgeon. Slammed backward, Hanover tumbled to the deck.
Hook turned away to stride to the railing. Leaning over it, he saw Cecco gazing up at him, one hand on the hilt of his knife. Hook poised his sword, tip down, and dropped it. The gypsy’s jewelry rang as he jerked backward. The sword delved into the deck. Next moment, Hook hurdled the rail. The men leaned forward, exclaiming, but the heavy thump they expected never came. Seeming to slow as he fell, Hook landed lightly, on his feet.
Hanover, on his legs again, rushed to clutch the rail and peer down. Hook pried the sword from the floor. He flourished it, smiling, and saluted the surgeon.
Watching the rivals fight for her, Jill found that her fingers had nearly indented the silver cup. Now, as the hostilities ceased, she drew a deep breath of relief.
And then she froze as she heard Hook’s final words.
“Come join me, Hanover, and we’ll determine who will win the woman.”
Hanover dashed down the steps. He spun around the post, to corner Hook at last. With the stairway on one side and the wooden wall behind him, Hook waited. On his other side, Cecco backed to make room, his eager eyes darting between the antagonists. From the surgeon’s sword, Hook had no escape.
Hanover sprang.
But Hook’s next move shocked him, and every other soul who saw it. Hook struck the doctor’s blade, whirled— and tossed his sword away. Coming full circle, he planted his legs and presented himself to Hanover, flinging his arms wide.
With a look of disbelief, Cecco caught the rapier. He stared at Hook. The captain stood smiling, unarmed— a willing target.
Hanover didn’t hesitate. He aimed his weapon at Hook’s heart, and he lunged.
Jill screamed, Smee hollered, “No, Captain!” As the company watched, appalled, time slowed to an agonized eternity.
Then another sound broke through. A musical sound. A tinkling of bracelets. Bearing Hook’s own sword, Captain Cecco strode toward him. As always, he had been watching for his moment. With a dangerous glint in his eye, he seized his opportunity.