But how long would it last?
Nineteen
The cook was given special privilege to leave the hot, sweaty prison long enough to prepare monotonous meals of biscuits, dried beans and salted meat. Esa insisted on helping, though it was Jacque that made sure his disobedient crew were fed and watered daily. What she wouldn’t give for a nice crisp salad with extra croutons and oozing with buttermilk ranch dressing.
The galley was no more than a spit for roasting, a few large cauldrons and a fire. Few spices lined a shelf; the sparse livestock brought on board had been used up days before, which meant the eggs were gone as well. She was hungry and growing leaner with each passing day, much to Jacque’s distress. He insisted on her eating his biscuit ration every evening.
To her delight, he asked if he might paint her portrait one evening when dusk was just about to set in. She propped herself against the side of the ship, the brilliant orange pinks and purples the perfect backdrop to her mood.
But if he didn’t finish soon, the tedious smile would be frozen on her face for all eternity.
“Merde!” Jacque spewed sending paints and canvas spiraling across the floor as he leapt to his feet and came running to her side.
She turned to see the cause of his alarm. “A ship!” She beamed with excitement, unable to comprehend his sudden rigidness. Surely he wouldn’t think of sea robbery with her on board! “Who is that?”
“The reason me treacherous crew still breathe.”
~ * ~
Jacque threw open the door of the hold. A pang of regret pinched his conscience as he met the weary eyes of his men. Damn, they looked too tired to hold their heads up, much less a weapon! Would they be able to fight off the impending attack that had seen the demise of his beloved ship in Esa’s future?
Part of him wished her time would have reclaimed her. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about her safety in the face of the coming danger.
“Avast mates. We’ve a rival ship approaching fast. I believe ‘tis Satan’s Wrath. You’ll need to collect your weapons and prepare yourselves for battle.”
“Cap’n?” Stewart looked puzzled, as did the others. And in that moment he knew that’s how the interloper had gained the upper hand. No one suspected the schooner owned by Emmanuel’s brother to launch an unwarranted attack. The fools had been blindsided in the black of night, and under the elected command of a flawed captain.
Jacque had wondered when the mysterious ship would show up. The constant dread lingered in his mind from the time they left Guadeloupe. It was only recently he was able to guess the ship’s identity.
“Regardless of what you were told, it was Keats conspiring against you all along. You don’t have to believe me now, but I swear, should ye neglect my warning, every one of you landlubbers will be sleeping at the bottom of the Atlantic come morning.” When they still didn’t look convinced, he added, “Did ye not hear me? I say the enemy is upon us! Will ye fight…” He paused to lift his pistols. “…or perhaps you’d prefer to forfeit your chances and die now?”
He stepped aside as the men quickly filed out of the hold, stretching, they seemed to gain a second wind and wasted no time discarding their weary expressions in exchange for fearless battle faces. For all their shortcomings, he’d sooner face a powerful battalion with these men than the king’s macaroni army, for experience and hardship had made them bitter bloodthirsty savages. They were strong fighters, the lot of them. He only wished he could have kept Brutus alive a little longer. He’d need all the muscle he could muster if he were about to face the fearsome crew of Satan’s Wrath, and its bloodthirsty captain, Mean Max. The man was ruthless to a fault. Keats and the others had lost the Sainte-Anne to the blithering sea bandits.
Keats had never been a match for Mean Max.
Things would be different this time. Where Keats lacked the brains and skill to best the foul marauder, Jacque possessed the speed of a cheetah, the savage strength of a lion and the foresight of what lay ahead.
Esa was safely tucked away in a nook between the foremast and the bowsprit. Well, as safe as anyone could be facing the unknown on the open sea. At least it was dark. The night would protect her should anyone find their way into the shadows. He prayed she listened and stayed put until after the violent exchange, but something told him he’d have better odds should he venture to broadside the coming vessel single-handedly.
Would he survive the confrontation? It wasn’t Mean Max he feared so much, hell, he’d fought and bested better men in his day. But until now, he’d never had to watch his back for the vengeance of his own riled crew.
~ * ~
Esa stayed burrowed in the hollow of the ship. She could hear the men bustling around the main deck, cursing and gearing themselves into a hyper violent frame of mind. It was the most terrifying sound she’d ever heard.
Her mouth went dry and her heart raced. What was happening? Did Jacque really expect his men to fight with him—for him—after he’d so viciously locked them away? How could he trust them? Then again, what choice did he have? And she heard him state that whatever was on that ship was theirs to split, he’d take no part. His men were to take command of the ship. And if they were successful, would they take control of his?
Her stomach jumped into her throat when she heard Jacque shout in a throaty voice that commanded attention, “Raid the bloody vessel and show no mercy!” She curled deeper into her fetal position, suddenly wishing she’d wake up and this would all have been a bad dream.
After a moment of eerie silence, the deafening boom of a musket pierced her eardrums. She covered her mouth in attempt to muffle her screams. Terror threatened to punch a hole in her chest. Not that anyone might have heard her for gunfire and war cries rose above the crash of waves against the irritated vessel.
It sounded like a bloody massacre going on not far from her hiding place. She considered fleeing to a safer location, but her promise to Jacque that whatever happened she’d not come out unless he himself came for her.
The ship rocked wickedly. Esa’d never in her life felt the ill effects of the sea, but nausea gripped her like cheap cologne. The musky smelling coverlets probably contributed to her sickness more than the violent conflict lighting the night around her. Then she heard something that nearly stopped her heart.
A lone voice, rising high above the rest, “The Cap’n’s been hit!”
She ripped off the protective cover and shot to her feet, but fear kept her to the shadows. Her hand clutched her burning stomach as she saw the torch light flicker along the lifeless bodies sprawled around the deck, praying heart and soul that Jacque wasn’t amongst them.
The drum in her ears grew to a mind-tingling roar.
Where was he?
She could barely see the animated silhouettes of men fighting on both ships. But no sign of Jacque. She dared prod a foot from the shadows, lifting her head in search of the yellow hanky he’d wrapped about his head to keep the hair from his face as he painted her portrait. Had he removed it?
Her heart fell through a trapdoor in her stomach as an arm clenched about her midriff, a strong hand covered her mouth and pulled her back into the shadows. She felt hot breath as a low toxic voice whispered in her ear, “I told ye to stay put!”
Jacque! Hot tears streamed her cheeks as she released the breath she’d been holding. “I thought you were dead!” She spun round and latched onto to his neck as though her entire existence depended upon his standing there.
“A premonition no doubt. Blimey lass! ‘Tis hard enough to detect the whereabouts of crew and enemy without having to worry about you keeping your bloody promise!”
“I’m sorry Jac—”
“What if it hadn’t been me that saw ye step into the light? Christ Esa, get down and if ye place no value on your own life, at least consider mine! Without me, my family is at the mercy of the king. Remember that next time your curious nature calls ye to retract your word!” He snaked back the way he’d come.
Ouch. It
had only been her concern for him—not her wayward curiosity—that had lured her from her hiding place. Back in her fragrant hideaway, she felt a stickiness on her hand. She sniffed her palm, unable to distinguish the scent due to the combination of foul aromas surrounding her. It made her skin crawl, her chest fall to even think it might be blood. Jacque’s blood.
The pillage sounded to be at its peak. Surely the men were too engaged to see what lurked in the shadows. She took the opportunity to sneak from her dark shelter and crawl far enough into the firelight to check out her hand.
It felt as though someone shoved a blade through her windpipe. It was blood that stained her hand. But not her own. No, this was the same hand that had cupped Jacque’s neck, then slid down his chest. The words of the crewman rang in her ears, drowning out the violent turbulence around her. The Cap’n’s been hit! Dear God, Jacque was bleeding!
“Oof—” she sputtered when something that felt like the sole of a heavy boot slapped her back with great force, knocking the wind from her sails. “J-Jacque!” she spat.
“Well now, what have we here, aye? A wench disguised as a man? Why, whatever for?” The unfamiliar and tobacco-roughened baritone inquired, his heavy boot still in the midst of her back. The weight was lifted and a mammoth hand gripped her arm and jerked her to her feet, spinning her around to face its gruff owner. “Ye shoulda’ listened to the scurvy dung lass!” he chuckled. And she thought for a moment she might shame herself by passing out.
He wasn’t one of Jacque’s men. She’d seen most of them and she’d have remembered this monstrous viper. Panic crept up her spine, freezing her senses so she couldn’t move. Who was he? Where was Jacque? Was he still watching her? Could he outfight this giant in a brawl? Then she recalled the blood on her hand and a whole new wave of fear cursed through her. Was Jacque’s wound fatal?
The man lifted her as though her weight equaled that of a feather and settled her, none too gently over his shoulder before thundering from the shadows, pistols firing from both hands as a strong arm held her in place.
Esa couldn’t see anything beyond the man’s wide load of a backside. The noise sounded to be dying down. Few men remained standing and those that did were too engrossed in battle to notice the strange man carrying her away.
“What’cha got there, Cap’n?”
His cackle caused rows of gooseflesh to erupt on her skin. “A luscious treasure, to be sure! Not to worry…” He paused and goosed her rear adding, “There’s plenty to go round!” The men laughed as they carried her away, across a wobbly plank and onto their own ship.
Where was Jacque?
~ * ~
Fire shot down his shoulder and Jacque grit his teeth against the blinding sting of pain. He had no idea who’d shot him, but felt sure it must have been one of Max’s clumsy lubber’s for the musket had only grazed him. Thank God.
He’d been fighting off two such lubbers when he saw the cattle sized Max caring Esa over his shoulder like a satchel full of spoil onto his ship. His first instinct was to run after them, but a sharp slash at his abdomen reminded him he was occupied at the moment. Berserk fury plowed through him, allowing him to ignore the throbbing wounds while pouring new strength into his weary veins. The handy man with the blade made another move to strike him while one of Jacque’s own stepped in to even the odds.
Jacque caught the man’s hand and bent it backward causing the shark-toothed swashbuckler to lose his grip on the blade. “Ye should never bring a butter knife to a gunfight!” Jacque shouted, holding his pistol to the man’s stomach and firing a single shot that sent the bug-eyed rat slumping at his feet.
~ * ~
“Put me down!” Esa cried. The men carried her down some steps and into what she could only assume was his cabin, for all she couldn’t see. He didn’t put her down. He barked orders to someone, ignoring her cries and fists of fury upon his back.
“Tie her up. Make sure ye get the gag especially snug. If any man dares put a finger on her before I have a go at the wench, they’ll answer to me, understand Gabby?”
She slid down the man’s front to her feet. Damn, but he was huge! As thick as he was wide, he could easily be part of a circus act. And solid as a rock. His burly voice matched his mammoth size. And he was as ugly as they come. Red straggly hair that probably hadn’t seen a comb in…well, it looked as though it had never seen a comb. His face was scarred; deep pockmarks marred high set cheeks. His breath matched what remained of his rotten teeth. His eyes looked hungrily over her curves, reminding her of the story of Little Red Riding Hood. She only wished she had the red cloak to hide herself from his predatory gaze.
Bile stung the back of her throat. Who was this fearsome creature?
“I’ll be back, me beauty. I’ve a contract to fulfill and a ship to collect. We shall celebrate my victory upon my return.” He winked and left the cabin hackling.
Esa’s heart was a well of terror. Where was Jacque? If he were alive, could he survive a confrontation with such a monster? The man left to her charge gathered a rope from a table near the door and advanced toward her.
Her heart sped. She couldn’t let him do it. She had to get out of here. Screaming for help, she kicked and flailed her limbs wildly at the stout man as he cornered her. Suddenly he was upon her, leaving no room for her vain defense. Still, she lifted her hand to strike him, but he caught her wrist and laughed as he shoved her to the floor. Face down, she attempted to crawl from beneath him, but his knee slammed into her back and she was helpless to breathe, much less muster any more strength to fight.
It was hopeless. He was a tough, merciless pirate and she’d never been in a fight before in her life. Soon, she found herself tied and gagged as the pirate retreated to his corner awaiting the return of his grotesque captain.
~ * ~
Keeping to the shadows, Jacque watched Mean Max storm across the deck just as he heard feminine screams rising from the lower deck. His heart told him to let Max pass, to rescue Esa and then deal with the swindler. His head told him this might be his only chance as the remaining fighters were aboard the Sainte-Anne. He hoped his men were strong enough to keep them from taking command of his ship. But if he must sacrifice one of the two, it damn sure wouldn’t be Esa.
A wicked smile stretched the face of his rival. In his ham-sized hands were two pistols. The bilge rat always carried extra knives in his boots and two at his waist with a third pistol tucked in the back of his britches.
Removing one of his two daggers, Jacque sent the cold steel sailing through the air, catching its target mid thigh. Max faltered but didn’t fall. He bent to inspect the injury, withdrawing the blade and coming up slowly, turning to scan the offensive area for the intruder.
He fired his pistols, stalking to the shadows to avoid another hit. Jacque, having removed his boots, used the stolen seconds while Max was analyzing his wound to slip away. Barefoot, he crept up behind Max and buried his pistol in his back.
Max’s body went rigid and then seemed to relax. “Ye’d best a man in a cowardly way? ‘Tis not like ye Cherif!” The overgrown steed had the audacity to laugh.
Jacque stiffened. No one but his closest friends and relatives knew him by that name.
He masked his resentment and pressed the gun a bit harder into the man’s broad spine. “Drop ye guns, Max. Ye won’t be needing them where you’re going.” He yanked the extra pistol from the man’s back and tossed it aside.
“What do ye want, Max?” It couldn’t be the Sainte-Anne else he’d not have sank it before. Per Esa’s history books, he’d taken Keats as hostage and sent his beloved vessel and the rest of his crew to the ocean floor. Why?
Surprised? Why should he have any cause to be surprised by the fact? “I’m surprised to see ye alive mate!”
“Com’on Max, ye know me better than that.” More laughter. “Avast mate, ‘tis true. I should have known Keats weren’t crafty enough to trick the likes of you!” His entire body shook in his merriment. “Where be ye first
mate anyway?”
Jacque’s jaw fell slack and he was suddenly glad the scallywag had his back toward him so he couldn’t see the revulsion in his face. How in the blazing hell did Max know of Keats’ betrayal? “Why, you’ve a rendezvous with him?”
“Aye, ye might say that. Though seeing you’re still breathin’, I’d have to guess Keats is not. Aye, I suppose ye troublesome carcass should suit my needs well enough.” Max lifted a boot and Jacque put a bullet in his foot. He dropped amongst the deck clutching his bloody limb.
“‘Tis more than I can say for you I’m afraid.” Jacque aimed the pistol at Max’s head. “Funny how your mind sees things different from what they prove to be. I’d thought it might take more effort to bring you down, mate. This is but child’s play!” Jacque snickered.
“I’ll show ye child’s play ye bloody cockswain!” Before Jacque knew what was coming, Max threw himself at his legs, knocking him to the floor. The gun fired into the air before falling from Jacque’s hand.
The hefty weight smothered Jacque as it fell atop his chest. He maneuvered his hand so the remaining pistol rested against Max’s side. He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The last shot had been sucked up by the man’s foot! Godsteeth!
Max unleashed an animal growl and shifted his weight so he hovered just above Jacque’s face. Jacque’s breathing ceased for a moment as the cold steel of a blade tickled his neck.
“Ye were sayin’, ye worthless bastard?”
Jacque brought his knee up, catching Max between the thighs. The large mouth formed an O as the pirate lifted his weight to cup his tender groin. With a powerful shove, Jacque skirted from beneath Max as he toppled backward in agony.
Curled in a semi-fetal position, Max’s eyes darted in every direction as if searching for something. Jacque looked about, a grin on his face. The knife. His malefactor must have dropped it in the wake of his torment.
Jacque lunged for the blade at the exact time as Max. Jacque was quicker. One minute the cold steel was in his hand, the next, buried in Max’s jugular.
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