He handed him the spyglass then, motioning to the approaching ship. “You’ll want to grab a sword before we board her. And, there will be cannon fire, but I swear to you I will not injure the ship enough to sink her. I need it to replace my fleet.”
Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, he fumbled with the glass, but looked at the parchment first.
The black ink on the crumpled parchment was familiar to him. He’d seen the same poster in a few establishments in Charles Town over the past months. His interest at the time was not on criminals; he’d ignored the drawing and the words upon it.
The woman’s face drawn on the parchment showed slightly full cheeks, but the facial shape was familiar. Wild hair flowed out from a large, manly hat set at a rakish angle to hide one eye. The description of a curvy-figured woman, with large, green eyes and red hair; the woman standing five foot, six inches in height, and most likely wearing a man’s hat, long breeches, vest, blouse, and boots, and wanted by the authorities.
The pirate, Anne Bonny.
The reward for her capture was substantial, and she was known to frequent wharf taverns with Jack Rackham and the like.
Addison heard of Anne Bonny, the temperamental redheaded pirate who dressed as a man . . . and fought as well as any man. She’d been captured and imprisoned, however.
He raised a questioning glance to Roberts. “You’re suggesting that my Anne is the Anne Bonny? The pirate?”
Admitting that Anne was the woman on the poster took him a moment. She displayed a fantastic temper, matched the description on the poster, and disappeared to Port Royal with a man who Roberts suggested had aided in the capture of Jack Rackham and two female pirates. Recalling her references to Tortuga and other pirate-infested areas, and recurring assurances that she was no lady, did lead one to think . . .
Roberts stared at him for a moment and motioned to the spyglass white-knuckled in Addison’s grip. “What I’m suggesting is that the woman I know as Anne Bonny is on that ship. If you find that she is indeed your Anne, then yes, that is what I’m suggesting.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m afraid we must ready the cannon now. I trust you’ll be ready to go as soon as you have a look through that glass.”
Giving Roberts a doubtful glance, he turned back and raised the glass to his eye. The ship was indeed active with men rushing about the deck, but that was not what caught his eye.
Anne, wearing the sapphire-colored, disheveled, and torn gown in which he’d last seen her, with her fiery hair flying about her head, faced a man larger than himself.
“Good God.”
He held his breath, the air suddenly sucked from his lungs, as he watched her fight the giant with a sword, meeting him blow-for-blow.
Fear congealed in the pit of his stomach, and warred with the admiration for her obvious skill with a blade.
“Brace yourself, mate. I’m about to send the first volley.” Bartholomew warned him, his voice calling from what seemed like a great distance, so consumed was he on the scene playing out with sickening clarity in the spyglass.
The pirate Anne Bonny, his Anne, was fighting for her life—and he prayed they’d arrive in time to save her.
Chapter 26
The clash of the blades, the sparks flying on each bang, reverberated up her arm and into her shoulder. Crewmen laughed and yelled about the entire deck, urging Oliver on. So far, she was able to either parry his move or sidestep his large body as he lunged.
At first, the giant man had simply toyed with her, she was sure, as he smiled quite often. That was until she’d sidestepped after his third attempt to disarm her, and she sliced him on the calf. He’d stopped long enough to stare at the blood staining the rip in his breeches, blinked at her as if seeing her for the first time, and gave a ferocious growl as he lunged for her again.
“Wicked bitch. I’ve played with you long enough.” His sword smashed into hers with new fervor.
Anne panted like a hare with a hound on its tail.
Her arm, trembling with exertion, retained some strength, like that of a cornered rabbit. But, she refused to converse with him, preferring to store as much energy for as long as possible; especially if Creech was her next opponent.
Backing away from him, she allowed him to advance on her to rest her aching arm. He lunged again, as she’d anticipated, and she sidestepped, twirled, and sliced him in the other calf.
“You—” he yelled, as the crowd around the deck chanted. “Get her! Get her!”
She darted to the other end of the deck, where more of the crew stood against her, so as to prevent her from jumping ship.
As she waited for Oliver’s next blow, a crewman bellowed from his post in the crow’s nest. “Pirates! A pirate ship approaches!”
Now, barring the fact that a very large and scary-looking man bared down on her, and the prospect of being raped or killed by said man, she felt a slight twinge of hope. Might the pirates advancing to the aft be preferable to the rabble on the Swallow?
“Stop running away!” Oliver bellowed, his face a mask of rage.
As soon as he was near her, she lunged, catching him off guard. He threw up his sword to block the blow she nearly landed upon his shoulder. His eyes widened in shock. She’d seen that look many times, on many of her adversary’s faces.
Oliver growled and pushed his blade forward, throwing off her thrust. Her arm flew back, but she was able to keep the sword in her grip, just barely. He sliced down again. Anne blocked the blow, and twisted to the right, crouching down to the wooden deck to lessen the blow to her weary arm.
He groaned, stumbled, and lurched forward, falling to the deck. Spinning, she raised her blade and sunk it as deep as it would go into his shoulder. The large man cried out, dropping his cutlass to the deck, and glaring at her. “But, how . . .?”
Wasting no time, for who knew how long Creech would await to begin his assault on her, she slashed down again with her blade. Oliver screamed in pain as the blade sliced through his other shoulder. She needed to keep him from wielding any weapons for quite some time. She allowed him to live, however.
It was then Anne noticed the deck erupted into chaos. Or, perhaps it had been so as she fought for her life. But, she’d focused on the task at hand, and that was to stay upright. Crewmen ran every which way, readying the ship for battle, grabbing weapons, and bellowing tasks.
She glanced about to get her bearings, and to see where Creech or Jericho had gone.
“It’s my turn, little pirate.” A deep voice called from behind her over the noise of the ship.
Creech.
She turned to see him leaning against the barrels pressed near the steps to the helm. Creech’s blue eyes assessed her as she stood there, panting and trembling. The crew continued to race about the ship, preparing for the imminent arrival of the pirate vessel approaching the aft of the ship.
His gaze rested solely on her as if he were not in the least distracted by the commotion around them. He unfolded his muscular arms and walked with a leisurely pace toward her, holding onto the cutlass in his hand is if it were a feather he’d plucked from a passing crow.
“I see you surprised ol’ Oliver. Rest assured, little one, I kept an eye on you the entire time. I know your cat-like movements.” A snarl lifted one side of his thin mouth displaying yellowing teeth. “I’ll not be bested by a mere slip of a woman.”
Before her trembling legs betrayed her true terror, she planted her feet and raised her chin. “That is precisely what your friend said. You know, the one lying over there bleeding on the deck.” She dared not take her eyes from him, but nodded her head where Oliver lay.
She’d fought for far longer and just as hard in her years fighting men, as she’d fought Oliver. But, her body was weakened from the voyage, and fighting off Jericho. She allowed her children’s faces to float b
efore her mind’s eye, then; to hear Addison’s voice in her mind and see the wolf-like smile on his lips. Renewed vigor flowed through her arms and kept a firm grip on the cutlass in her hand.
Creech narrowed his eyes, walking a wide circle around her. She turned with him, not allowing him to see her back. The muscles straining against the man’s shirt were far larger, even, than Raphael’s, and his legs were the size of tree trunks. His neck bulged with muscle, the sides of it puffed up above the collar of his cotton shirt. She was no match for him, she knew. She swallowed any remaining fear with a gulp of air. A fight unto death, then.
“I see you recognize power when you see it.” He stopped moving long enough to flex his upper arms, lifting one large bicep to press a kiss upon it. “I’ve never lost a fight, not with this strength.”
Tactics. Every man had a weak spot—well, besides the obvious one. Perhaps he had a blind spot, or a weak turn. Oliver’s weakness had been his inability to anticipate his opponent’s swift next move. Creech’s shrewd eyes told her he’d not fall prey to that particular ineptitude.
“Those are indeed impressive.” She nudged her head indicating his muscles. “I have to admit, you are a fit specimen, Mr. Creech.” The more she kept him talking, the more time her body had to build energy.
“You’ll have me blushin’ if you don’t stop givin’ me compliments, little pirate.” There was a slight lift of his lips. He circled slowly around her again, and she turned on her heel so as to keep up with his cat and mouse game.
“I have heard tales rather distressing, though, Mr. Creech, about men with overly large muscles.”
Blue eyes narrowed. “And what tales are those?”
She raised the point of the cutlass in his direction. “That they have teeny, tiny . . . rods.”
He growled quite as loud as Mr. Oliver before she’d impaled him with her sword. “Why, you little . . .”
He stomped forward, slashing down with his blade. She caught the blow at the base of her cutlass. The pain and pressure in her arm and shoulder doubled that of Oliver’s crashing blade. She nearly dropped her precious sword.
“You’ve got her now, Creech!”
Anne dared not search for Dobison’s whereabouts, but she guessed he stood safely at the helm of his ship, staring down from on high while his crew did all the work.
Creech yelled again as he lifted his blade and shattered it down upon her again. She deflected it, but only by grinding down so hard on her teeth, she was surprised they did not break apart.
She put both hands upon the hilt of her sword, breathing as if bricks were sitting upon her lungs.
Cannon fire whizzed through the air and crashed near the aft of the ship, a large splash following the noise. Splintering wood and the jarring of the very boards beneath her feet trembled as a second ball landed somewhere in the vicinity. Men hollered and scrambled about. The ship lurched sharply to the port side and she slipped, but somehow, kept her feet. Creech chuckled, and rushed her yet again, as if he was used to the sudden shifts in direction.
All she could think was to remove herself from the next volley of cannon. Bracing her feet, she awaited Creech’s next thrust, which landed with a thudding accuracy. Vibrations traveled all the way up her arm, her fingers tingling. The smell of smoke and burning wood assailed her nostrils, and men’s screaming voices flooded her ears.
Creech’s face inched closer and closer to hers as he pressed his blade against hers. Screeching in his face, she pushed with all her might and shoved herself backward. He advanced on her as she backed away, but they were heading in the right direction—away from possible cannon detonation.
“Running away now? That’s not like you, little pirate.” There was a grim smile on his face. “You may as well surrender. It will go better for you.”
“No, thank you. I prefer to fight.” A handkerchief in the wind, her legs had this consistency. Somehow, she still stood on them. How, she did not know, but it was a moot point as the next round of cannon hit the very spot they’d vacated. She stumbled, as did her opponent, while shards of wood flew around them. But, they kept their feet, throwing out their hands to steady themselves.
Warily, she watched him right himself much quicker than she. “It won’t go well for you if you keep fighting.”
Speaking. His weakness. Creech craved conversation. Although her throat ached and her mouth felt as if it were stuffed with balls of cotton, she had to keep him talking.
“You’d not respect me if I surrendered so quickly.” She raised her sword arm again, able to see the pirate ship looming very close to the Swallow. The grappling hooks would soon be soaring through the air.
“Begging for it. That’s how I want you.” His blade remained at his side as he stalked toward her. He lifted it right before reaching her, clenching down on his jaw, and bringing the blade arcing down.
Deflecting the blow jarred her as before, but she found it was easier to twist and walk backwards, away from him.
“Oh, you’ll never get that. Besides, I’ve no urge to see your tiny appendage so soon.” She panted but gave him a grin. She felt anything but cheeky, but it helped in irritating him. And, she heard the much-anticipated grappling hooks clanging against the walls of the ship.
The sound gave her hope.
His eyes narrowed again. “We’ll see what’s tiny!” He bared down on her again. Just as their swords met, she saw the first round of pirates land upon the deck. Pushing off, she stepped backward once more.
“Shouldn’t you be worrying about the pirates?”
He shook his head, his cropped black locks flopping about his head. “No. The crew will take care of them. I’m more interested in my reward, once I best you.”
“Then, best me.” Bravado came easily and she knew she truly had no chance, unless one of the pirate crew decided to save her. And, lord knew that pirates did not aide damsels in distress, only caused distress.
He smiled and advanced on her. It was now or never. Her arm would never hold out. He slashed down, and she cried out. The final brute force upon her arm, and the instant numbness in her hand had her blade and his, fumbling toward her. Creech’s fetid breath blew in her face as he pushed her onto the deck, the hilt of his sword hitting her in the chin.
Dazed, the force of the fall knocked the wind from her chest. Miraculously, her cutlass remained in her grip. Her vision blurred for a moment, but righted itself. Allowing her lashes to flutter closed, she waited.
“You knocked her senseless, Creech.” Dobison complained from somewhere behind her.
“Aye, but she’s mine first. Don’t care if she’s out.” Creech’s voice was near her left ear as he leaned over to check her out. His hand grabbed her chin and moved her head from side to side, not an ounce of gentle regard in his grasp.
She clutched the hilt of her sword in a tight vice, and swung it with all her might. She pushed it right through his side between two of his ribs, a squishing noise, loud, even with the commotion around them.
Her eyes flew open as he screamed.
His eyes were wide, his mouth moved in shock. “Impossible!” He clutched his side, blood seeping through his fingers.
“You idiot!” Dobison knocked Creech out of the way. He hit the wooden surface much as an elephant falling over in the wild.
Anne rolled on her side and scrambled to her feet, but not before Dobison knocked her cutlass from her numbed fingers with a vicious kick.
Panting, heaving, feeling sick, and backed into a veritable corner, she waited with raised chin. “You’re not going to fight me with a sword? Coward.”
“Why, so you can trick me? No. I think I like my chances with you without a weapon.” He held his own cutlass, and trained the blade of it in her direction.
Anne felt a smile playing about her lips. She’d just spied an old frie
nd, his muscular frame fighting his way in her direction. There was no mistaking the long, clubbed back hair and bright orange ribbon containing it.
“You’d best get on with it then.” She nudged her head, indicating the men behind him.
His tobacco-stained teeth shown for a moment, his eyes squinted with doubt. “You’ll not trick me, wench. My crew is taking care of that rabble.”
Shrugging, she let contentment fill her voice as the other pirate crew advanced. “Suit yourself, but Bartholomew Roberts is no rabble.”
“Trickery, no doubt. Black Bart is in the West Indies.” He stepped toward her, blade raised. “Nice try. Now, back to your surrender.”
“Give me a sword, coward.”
His eyes showed wariness for a moment, and he slowed his pace. “I think not. I think it better to reduce . . .” The tip of his sword punctured her right shoulder, right above her breast. “. . . your ability to fight.” She heard a popping sound as it entered her flesh, and come out through her back. Intense pain and a severe burning sensation took her breath.
Stuttering, she stumbled, inhaling deep gulps of air with the pain. She stared at Jericho and clutched the open wound, watching as blood poured through her fingers. So much blood escaped to drain her of what little energy she had.
Jericho came at her, gripping her by the arm on the same side as the hole in her chest. She screamed in pain, falling to the deck. Blood formed a puddle, staining the wood and what was left of her gown.
“Don’t you touch me,” she gasped between throbs of pain.
“Oh, I’m going to touch you, wench. No doubt about it.” A hard slap landed across her cheek.
She moaned, her head cracking against the wood. He landed on her, knocking the breath from her, his chest against hers, his hips pressed against her legs.
My Bonny Heart (Pirate's Progeny Book 1) Page 23