The Pirate's Booty (The Plundered Chronicles Book 1)

by Alex Westmore

  “No. Yes. Well... I’m not entirely sure. He has alluded but not come right out with it, no. But she does not.”

  “What?” Shea lowered her voice. “She doesn’t know? How... oh, Qu––Callaghan, that hurts my heart.”

  “It is just as well. The woman could be with neither a pirate nor another woman. I would have lost her on either account.”

  “Yet she pays for your protection? I think it sounds incredibly sweet.”

  Before Quinn could reply, there came a shout from the top of the Forte de Sao Joao Baptista, a fortress perched on an outer slip on the tiny Portuguese island.

  “Jesus,” Fitz muttered, leaning over the rail. “Looks like these buggers are a fuckin’ Venus flytrap. The winds blew us here, and now they want a piece a’ us.”

  “Kinda like the captain’s toll?” Connor asked.

  “What’s he saying?” One Eye asked O’Leary when a man approached the ship and started yelling up at them.

  O’Leary stepped on a stair to hear better. “He’s Portuguese. He thinks we’re slave traders, and he wants our Africans. Fer payment. Ta stay here.”

  Quinn looked over the railing at nearly fifty men with muskets and two cannons poised right at them.

  A land cannon?

  That made Quinn uneasy, especially since the height at which they were perched made them point directly at the hull.

  Captain O’Malley laughed. “Tell that son of a bitch that I wish ta be goddess a’ the universe. Ya tell those rapscallions if they fire one shot, my men will chop them ta pieces and feed their body parts ta the sharks. I am no mood fer this bloody bullshit.”

  O’Leary relayed the information and listened to the reply. “He says three hundred more are on their way.”

  Captain O’Malley turned to Innis. “Prepare ta attack that shitty little fortress. We’ll not be harassed by a bunch a’ no-good islanders with a fuckin’ cannon pointed at us.”

  Shea raised her hand. “Captain, can I make a suggestion?”

  Nobody moved.

  Nobody breathed.

  Everyone slowly turned to see Captain O’Malley’s reaction.

  “Do I look like I need one?” she scowled.

  “No, ma—uh, sir, but you might think about giving them what they want until you can decommission those cannons. We are no longer helpless. Give us each a sword, and we can at least strike against the men at the cannons. These people never expect slaves to fight back. Ever. They certainly will never expect a female slave to fight back. They will lower their guard long enough for you to attack without the fear of cannon blast.”

  Grace O’Malley’s glare slowly cooled to a look of appreciation. “I like it. Kwame, ya and Shea and three others will need to get to the cannons quickly. Once the cannoneers are kilt, my Firsts will finish this business.” To Innis, she said, “Get these men and women swords.”

  Innis took off and quickly returned, bearing weapons of various sizes. “I think daggers are the best choice. Look unarmed. Look afraid. Present the little one as if she was a gift.”

  Kwame turned to Shea and said, “It is a wonderful plan, but you’ll not go with us.”

  Shea stepped right up to him. He was a good foot taller, if not more. “You try to make a decision for me again, sir, and I shall make you a gelding in your sleep. I did not just leave one master to fall into the hands of another, so step away before you get hurt.”

  Quinn burst out laughing.

  The look of shock on Kwame’s face was priceless. “Is she always so––”

  “Opinionated? Overbearing? Stubborn?”

  “Forceful.”

  Nodding, Quinn stepped back. “Always. I suggest not trying that again. Shea is not one to take orders from anyone, regardless of how you think you might feel about her.”

  Kwame bowed to Shea. “My apologies, Miss. It shall not happen again.”

  “See that it does not.”

  Quinn plucked a sharp dagger out from the pile and handed it to Shea. “Are you sure you can kill a man, Shea? Because trust me... doing so will change you forever.”

  “Oh, Callaghan, my sweet, sweet, friend. I am already changed forever. And yes, I can and will kill any man who tried to keep me... us... from going home.” Taking the dagger, Shea slid it up her sleeve. “Trust me when I say this, Callaghan: I’d rather die than be taken prisoner ever again.”

  When the Shea and the Africans disembarked, Quinn and the rest of the crew waited with swords drawn and eyes trained on the Africans as they exited the ship, hands seemingly bound in front of them, short swords and daggers hanging from their belts behind them. Tavish led the front while Fitz walked behind to give the illusion of controlling the “slaves.”

  “Brilliant idea,” Innis said softly. “Yer friend is more than just beautiful.”

  “Yes, she is.” Quinn’s hand gripped the sword at her waist nervously. “She is also quite pigheaded.”

  “Birds of a feather, eh?” Connor quipped.

  “She’ll be fine, Callaghan,” Innis reassured Quinn. “Yer boy Kwame is smitten with her. He’ll not let ennathin’ happen ta her.”

  With trepidation, Quinn watched as the drama unfolded as if in slow motion.

  As Tavish yanked the rope free and it fell to the ground, he punched one man in the face, pivoted, and jammed his short sword through a second man’s ribs. Tavish was clearing the way for Kwame, Shea, and four others, who made a beeline for the cannoneers—one of whom lit his cannon’s fuse before being run through by Kwame’s blade.

  While Tavish took two more out, Kwame leapt over the dead men and banged swords with the second cannoneer. As they fought, Shea leapt on top of the lit cannon and forced it to drop slowly until the mouth was pointing at the rocks below and not, as it had been, at the hull of the ship.

  The cannon fired, knocking Shea to the ground, but she was up in an instant and making her way over to help out with the second cannon.

  No help was needed.

  The Africans, Shea, Tavish, and Fitz managed to kill all but five of the Portuguese, who ran away, leaving their unused muskets on the ground.

  “I’ll be damned,” Murphy said, clapping Quinn on the back. “I knew she was good with a cleaver, but that little one has some spitfire!”

  “That she does.” Quinn smiled to herself as she watched them all return to the ship. She wasn’t the least surprised at Shea’s forbearance. She’d always been a handful. She’d always been brave.

  Captain O’Malley barked orders to lay their storm-damaged masts on top of the fort and begin repairs while she surveyed the damage to the hull of the ship.

  When the masts were laid out, the Africans went right to work without even waiting for orders.

  “What are they doing?” Murphy asked.

  Quinn held up her bracelet. “The rowers are master weavers. They’ll have our sails fixed in no time.”

  As the men all worked feverishly to make repairs, Grace ordered three dozen others to stand watch to make sure the Portuguese did not, in fact, return with three hundred men.

  The fort was in a perfect location for them to make their repairs unmolested by anyone else, and as the midday sun beat down on their backs, only the Africans appeared unfazed.

  The Africans and Shea.

  Quinn marveled at her tiny friend and how she moved among the African men as if she were their queen. Whatever had happened to her at the hands of Dragut hadn’t seemed to damper the fire in her belly permanently. For that, Quinn was grateful.

  “Listing ship off the starboard bow!” came the strong voice of a man known only as Seagull from the crow’s nest.

  Captain O’Malley opened her spyglass and looked through it before handing it to Innis. “Shite. Corsairs. They have managed ta stay afloat somehow.”

  “Let ’em drown,” Innis said. “We gotta get these sails and masts fixed and get back on the water before them Portageese come back with a mob and torches.”

  Grace took the glass back and peered through it for a
long, long time. Suddenly, her demeanor changed.

  “Captain?”

  “It’s too far away ta tell, but I think I’ve seen that ship before.”

  “Course ya have. Them corsairs been botherin’ us fer years. Probably someone we plundered once.”

  Grace slowly lowered the glass, “Tell Seagull I want reports about that ship. Ennathin’ changes, I want ta know about it.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  When Innis was gone, Grace called Quinn over. “Ya have got verra good eyes, Callaghan. I want ya ta take this glass and look at the people on the deck if ya can. Tell me if ya see ennathin’... outta place. Ennathin’ odd.”

  “Out of place, sir?”

  “Aye. Ya will know it when ya see it.”

  Quinn opened the glass and looked through it. The ship was far enough away that she could only make out the clothes of the crew with their usual bright colors. They looked like ants scurrying about trying to keep their ship from sinking.

  Without aid, it would, that much she knew.

  It had no sails, the oars were busted, and she listed heavily to the port side.

  As Quinn continued to survey the deck, she passed someone. Stopped. Passed them again and then squinted to make sure she saw correctly.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “What? What do ya see, Callaghan?”

  Keeping her eye to the glass until she was certain, Quinn lowered the telescope and handed it to Captain O’Malley. “Something I never thought I’d see again.”

  “What? What is it?”

  Quinn grinned. “Another female captain, and she isn’t going to be alone for long.” Quinn pointed out to the sea beyond the listing ship.

  Captain O’Malley peered through the scope just as Seagull cried out from the crow’s nest. “She’s got company, Capin’ off the starboard side!”

  Glancing up to see exactly where Seagull was pointing, Grace swung the eyeglass around to find an English ship bearing down on the listing vessel.

  “Innis, can we get this thing moving with but a sail?” she shouted.

  “No, sir. There’s not much wind, and the sails we have––”

  “Drop the boats in the water!” Grace ordered. “Make it fast!”

  For a moment, no one moved.

  Then Grace yelled it again. “Did. I. Stutter? Get the bloody boats in the water!”

  Unfrozen, the men scurried around the deck dropping one boat in after another, until all eight rowboats bobbed up and down in the sea.

  The Malendroke was one of the few ships in her class that stowed smaller boats along the sides. These boats, as Quinn had discovered earlier, were employed for a variety of reasons.

  Now, one of those reasons was to serve as as lifeboats.

  “Callaghan, One Eye, Fitz, O’Leary, Connor, Flannigan, O’Brien, and O’Toole, head up the boats. Take two rowers each and get as many men off the ship as ya can before the English light her up.

  Quinn and the seven other men took off for boats that already had rowers standing by. Over the side went the rope ladders, and with the same ease as climbing a tree, the men were down it in the blink of an eye. It was the precise organization Captain Grace O’Malley was known for.

  Before Quinn grabbed hold of the rope ladder, Grace pulled her aside. “Save the captain, Callaghan. Skip everraone else and make sure ya save her. Tell her Grace O’Malley sent the help. She won’t go with ya unless she knows it’s me. Say me name, or she’ll likely run ya through.” Quinn nodded and darted over the side of the ship.

  When Quinn landed with a thump in her boat, she was slightly surprised to find Kwame at one of the oars.

  “Your assignment?” Quinn asked.

  “Aye. Captain wants us ahead of the others.” With that, Kwame grabbed one oar and broad-chested Flannigan took the other. Together, they quickly pulled away from the ship and the other boats.

  As the boat cast off, Quinn waved up to Shea. “Be right back!”

  “You'd better!”

  Sitting down, Quinn braced herself as the waves slapped angrily at the side of the boat. She hated these small boats and the way the water commandeered them. She could barely hold on.

  Who was this woman that Captain Grace O’Malley launched eight boats and two dozen crewmembers to help?

  Quinn was dying to find out.

  “Flannigan, do ya know ennathing about this captain we are charged ta rescue?”

  Flannigan pulled once, twice, and on the third pull, answered, “Aye. We dealt with her a few years back. Her name is Sayyida al Hurra, from the kingdom a’ Grenada. She is Moroccan.”

  “Was she following us, this Moroccan?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Why on earth would the captain be even remotely interested in saving her and her crew?”

  “Perhaps because, like our captain, al Murra is a queen who chose the sea.”

  Quinn mulled this over, her mind racing with the possibilities. “Does she––”

  “That is all I know, Callaghan.”

  As the boat neared the listing ship, Quinn could hear the shouting and panic of a crew who understood all too well the watery grave that awaited them.

  “Okay. Ya heard the captain. I’ll climb aboard the ship while ya do yer best ta get them ta recognize that we are not foe.”

  Flannigan chuckled and then spat into the water. “Muslims attack first and ask later, Callaghan. Ya will need ta be prepared ta fight before ya have the chance ta speak.”

  Eyeing the English ship bearing down on them, Quinn calculated their arrival at nearly the same time as her own. “I think we had all better be prepared ta fight.”

  As the small boat pulled up to the ship, Quinn grabbed the anchor line and started climbing. As she did, she could hear Flannigan yelling out Grace’s name.

  When she reached the deck, several swords were stuck near her face, the bearers speaking Berber to her. Quinn raised her arms in surrender. “My cap––my queen––Grace O’Malley, chieftain of Umaill, sent us ta help.” Quinn eyed the English ship not ten ship lengths away. “Ta help,” she repeated. “Grace O’Malley. Please. I need ta see yer captain.”

  The men grabbed her, shoving her onto her knees, chattering with each other in their native tongue.

  “Grace O’Malley!” Quinn yelled out. “Grace O’Malley!”

  One of the men placed the tip of his sword at her neck.

  “Grace O’Malley!”

  The older of the three men, an aging seaman with a face like a map, yelled something over his shoulder.

  Suddenly, the woman appeared, her head wrapped in a tan scarf, her legs covered in pants beneath a green skirt. Around her waist hung a scimitar. A bone-handled dagger with a curved blade protruded from the front of her belt.

  “Did you say Grace O’Malley?” the woman asked in Latin.

  Quinn nodded and replied in the same language. “Aye. She sent us ta help ya from yer ship, but we must hurry.”

  The woman, who Quinn knew must be Sayyida, barked orders to the men, who helped Quinn to her feet. Then she turned back to Quinn. “Where? Where is she?”

  Quinn pointed. “Just beyond that cove. The storm pushed us well out of our way. We are at that island making repairs.”

  Sayyida was a beautiful woman with a smooth complexion of soft, caramel skin and large, almost haunting brown eyes. “If your captain truly sent you, she knows I will never abandon my ship.”

  “With all due respect, Yer Majesty, that English ship has the advantage. Might ya not choose ta live ta fight another day? We can save ya and yer men.”

  The woman surprised her with a laugh. “Spoken like a European. The advantage is but a momentary one. As in every battle, the tide ebbs and flows.”

  The ship was now five ship lengths away, and Quinn knew she would need to make a decision about whether or not to leave the woman and her crew to the hands of the English.

  Could she afford to disobey Grace O’Malley twice?

  Quinn unde
rstood that Sayyida had no intention of accepting her help. She also knew that disobeying Grace again was a bad idea, especially if this woman was a friend. “Then allow my men on board ta help fight.”

  Sayyida stood closer to Quinn, her eyes studying Quinn’s face. “I have a better plan for Grace’s gift... and here is how we shall employ it.”

  ***

  When the English boarded the Moroccan vessel, they landed on the deck of an empty ship. Thinking the crew was down below, they stormed down the stairs, swords drawn, prepared to destroy every last man.

  But the crew was not to be found.

  Anywhere.

  Or so the English believed.

  Instead, they clung to the side of the boats Grace had sent over, and when the English ship pulled alongside the Moroccan vessel, Grace’s and Sayyida’s men swam over to the now half-populated English ship.

  In an instant, Sayyida’s crew climbed aboard the English vessel and took the battle to their opponents, kicking down the planks and cutting the ropes, leaving the English pirates stranded on the listing ship.

  Quinn and Kwame stood back to back, fighting with as much ferocity as if they were on the Malendroke. Swords clanged together, limbs fell to the bloody deck, and the Moroccans hacked and slashed their way through a tough English crew with swords thicker, sharper, and meaner than any Quinn had ever faced.

  When the English on board the Moroccan vessel realized what was happening, they reached for their ropes in an attempt to help their mates who were being slaughtered on their own ship

  It was too late.

  A long fuse set before the Moroccans had left their ship finally hit its mark, blowing up all of the powder used for the cannons on Sayyida’s ship. The fireball that burst through the upper deck nearly cut the ship in half, sending half the surprised English to their deaths aboard a boat they had believed to be finished.

  It hadn’t been, but it sure was now, and it took dozens of Englishmen with it.

  Just English.

  Those who lived were now under attack on their own ship. Many of the stunned English hesitated, giving Grace’s and Sayyida’s crews a chance to run them through. Quinn parried, slashed, and hacked her way closer to Sayyida, who was fighting off a sailor twice her size. As the man pushed her back against the ship’s railing, he sneered. The giant clearly had the advantage.