“Point her up into the wind, lass, a bit more! Faith, she’s no square-rigger, you know! Let her fly!”
“But Daddy,” she’d cried, in her eight-year-old voice, “she’s already pointed as high as
she’ll go! She’ll be in irons!”
“Faith, lass, I designed her; d’you think I don’t know what she can do?’’ His laughter—
rich, merry, Irish laughter—had mingled with the wind before he’d come aft to wrap his hands around hers, steadying them upon the tiller, teaching her about ships and sailing, wind and waves and weather. . . “Now, listen to your ship, and she will speak! Always listen, daughter, for she owns the wisdom of the sea, and the day you forget to listen is the day the sea will do you in . . .”
The memory dimmed, faded, was lost to the silence of the night. Maeve bit her lip and
swallowed hard against the sudden lump in the back of her throat. High above, a million stars twinkled and winked in celestial abandon; she gazed up at them, wondering if those same stars stood watch over her father now, more than a thousand miles away in New England.
Then, as she had done every day these past seven years, she lifted her gaze to the dark
horizon. But there were no lights out there from any incoming ship. It was empty, just as she’d known it would be. Her father was not coming for her. Her mother was not coming for her.
No one was coming for her, because no one cared.
“Captain?”
Quickly, she swallowed the hot lump in her throat. At least she had Kestrel, and all the memories that could never be taken away.
“Captain? You all right?”
“Aye, of course I’m all right!” She spun to face them, affecting a hard smile that forbade further comment. “I’m just thinking, ’tis all. My mind is made up. We’ll go find Nelson, but without our prisoner, so that we may bargain. If this man Gray is so blasted valuable to both the British and French navies, I intend to play one off against the other so we’ll get the most money for him.”
“Oh, Majesty, that is brilliant!”
She shrugged and turned away, her heart aching.
“But what if the admiral doesn’t believe we even have such a man in our possession?”
Sorcha asked, swinging her legs to and fro as she sat astride the big gun. “He may think we’re bluffing!”
“I cannot risk bringing him along,” Maeve said firmly, refilling her mug from the rum
barrel. “Not yet, anyhow. Lord Nelson is supposed to be a decent man, but he may view our captive as Royal Navy property and therefore refuse to negotiate. Our captive is our property, and as such, we should get paid for him. And believe me, if the British want this traitor so much, they’ll pay grandly to get him back. Especially if I let it be known I have no qualms about selling him to Villeneuve!”
“I think we should bring the prisoner to Admiral Falconer instead,” Sorcha said, with wisdom beyond her years. “He may pay us more than Nelson. After all, it was from his flagship that our pirate escaped.”
Maeve expelled her breath on a hoot of jeering laughter. “What, that scoundrel? Graham Falconer’s naught but a rake, with his brains firmly entrenched in his breeches and standing ever at attention! He’s too busy ruining female reputations to give us the time of day!”
“Harsh words, Majesty. You’ve never even met Sir Graham.”
“I’ve no need to. His amorous exploits are no secret, and the stories about him are richer than Morgan’s gold.”
“Well, he has turned a blind eye to our activities.”
“That’s because I have never attacked an English ship. Nor do I intend to.” Maeve tossed
down her ale, gave a very unladylike belch, and grabbed up her cutlass once more. “Invitation or not, we will find and board the Victory, “she declared, “where I shall personally confront the celebrated Lord Nelson! Now, who’s coming and who’s not?”
A chorus of excited “ayes” rose on the night. Moments later, provisions were brought
aboard, the windlass was cranking, the anchor was coming up, sails were dropping, and the schooner Kestrel was turning her face toward a future that was hidden from even her mystical captain.
###
The pirate crew saw the lights of the British fleet as a rim of scattered stars hull up on the horizon and rising as Kestrel slid through the night. It had rained earlier, and now the air was fresh-washed and clean, tangy with the smell of salt and wind. She might have been a ghost ship, the schooner; the Pirate Queen had ordered all lanterns doused, and all commands spoken in a whisper. She was not taking any chances on losing her element of surprise. Kestrel was a formidable little vessel but she was no ship-of-the-line, and Victory's massive cannon could easily send her on a quick journey to the bottom.
Maeve took the tiller herself as they drew closer. “Bring in the main!” she hissed, watching the lights of the fleet rising higher and higher on the horizon. She drew her night glass and put it to her eye, feeling her hair tickling her cheeks as the gentle breeze tossed it about her face. It was hard to make out much in the darkness, but the starlight favored her situation, and she was soon able to pick out the mighty flagship of the famous English admiral as Victory led the fleet on a southerly course toward Tobago.
Excitement tingling through her blood, she snapped the glass shut and handed it to Orla.
“Ha! The admiral must be in one hell of a hurry to reach Tobago!” She crossed her arms, threw her head back, and planted her feet on the deck, looking every inch the Pirate Queen she was.
“Well, I’ll just have to tell him his search of those islands will be a fruitless one. Now, we cannot risk sailing in any closer. Dark as it is, all sailors have good night vision and I’ll not risk having Victory blow us out of the water. Let’s get far ahead of the fleet, then heave to.”
“What do you plan to do, Captain?” Orla asked.
“The only thing I can do,” she returned. “Swim.”
“What?”
“I’m a pirate, do you think they’ll just allow me aboard? No, what we must do is get well ahead of the fleet—where you and I will leap overboard and wait in the water. We’ll let the current carry us toward Victory while she drifts down toward us. There’s hardly any wind, those ships are barely moving—’twill not be so difficult to haul ourselves up onto Victory's rudder chains, gain the quarterdeck, hide on the mizzen chains, then sneak through a gunport and down into the admiral’s cabin. Now let’s go. We haven’t got all night.”
###
Nelson was usually in bed by nine, but tonight he was up later than usual, concluding his
interview with Sir Graham Falconer’s flag-captain, Colin Lord, while Victory plowed an unerring course toward Tobago, Trinidad, and—Nelson hoped—a glorious battle with the French fleet that would immortalize him forever in the eyes of England, Lady Hamilton, and of course, posterity.
The Fleet had found nothing in Barbados except Falconer’s handsome flagship, the sugar
convoy he was to have escorted back to England, and information from a brigadier general
named Brereton, who’d sighted Villeneuve’s mighty fleet off of St. Lucia. General consensus on Barbados held that the enemy had gone to attack Tobago and Trinidad, though why Villeneuve would bother with coal when the diamonds of Jamaica and Antigua were at hand was a puzzle that Nelson could not solve. His every instinct told him the information rang false, but an officer on Barbados, assuring him Brereton’s word was sound, had lent him some two thousand of his own troops in support of it, and now, less than twenty-four hours after anchoring in Carlisle Bay, the Mediterranean Fleet was headed south in hot pursuit of the enemy.
Dinner had long since ended, and now Nelson and Colin Lord sat in the quiet splendor of the cabin, sipping champagne and indulging in a fine white cake while Nelson’s beloved Emma
Hamilton looked down at them from her portrait on the bulkhead.
Nelson, of course, had positioned himself so that the portrait was in
direct line with his eye; he had only to look above the top of Captain Lord’s fair head to see it.
In his mid-twenties, the young officer was tall, spare, and steady as a first rate in a gale. His cheeks were round in the English way, his brow intelligent, his eyes sensitive and of the clearest shade of purple-gray. The barrage of questions Nelson had fired at him was enough to shake even the stoutest of hearts—but the captain, son of an admiral himself, seemed well used to the demands of authority and did not quail beneath Nelson’s penetrating eye, answering his queries in a frank, forthright way that brought a twisted smile of approval to his lordship’s tired face.
“I’m grateful for the truth, Colin,” Nelson said, shrewdly watching the man across from him.
“I did question Captain Ben Warner upon reaching Barbados yesterday, but had a feeling that he, in his eagerness to protect Falconer’s name, was not being quite honest with me.”
Carefully, Captain Lord said, “Admiral Falconer created his own Band of . . . uh, Brethren, sir. We were all very loyal. Warner is not to be blamed for trying to protect our admiral’s reputation, if I may be so bold as to voice my opinion.”
Nelson looked at him sharply. Brethren, the captain had said, not brothers. The significance of that fact did not escape him.
He smiled wryly. “Any commander who earns the love and loyalty of his men is to be
praised. Your Admiral Falconer, eccentric as he was, was a fine sailor and a fierce fighter, and that is all that matters to me. I care not what he did in his spare time, but should the gossips in England get wind of this, they’ll have a fine day of sport indeed. Damn them all to hell. Damn them all to hell and beyond!” The solitary little fist crashed down on the table. “Upon my life, Captain, this shall go no farther than this cabin!”
The younger man flushed beneath the sudden outburst and gazed down into his glass.
“Besides,” Nelson snapped, petulantly tightening his mouth, “my own conduct has given the gossips enough fuel for their damned fires. D’you think I intend to give them any more? By God, I shall see that your admiral’s name suffers no tarnish, and that he will be remembered for his achievements, his duty to his country, and, of course, his bravery under my command during the Battle of the Nile! Furthermore—”
He paused, the color high in his face, his fist poised above the table.
“Milord?”
Nelson was frowning, cocking his head and listening intently. “Did you hear something,
Captain?”
“No, sir.”
“Age. It must be age, then, what else could it be? I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, and now I’m hearing things that go bump in the night! By God, I sometimes think I am losing my mind, as indeed I shall if I do not find that damned Veal-noove and bring him to battle! How I long for peace! How I long for battle! How I long for my dear Lady Hamil—oh, never mind! Instead, let us discuss you, Colin, and the convoy you shall be escorting home to England—”
He never finished.
At that moment, a window imploded in a shatter of glass, a figure fell sprawling to the deck, and the admiral—darling of the British Navy, Victor of the Nile, and nemesis of the dreaded Napoleon—shot to his feet.
“Great God! ”
The intruder picked herself up, brushed off the bits of glass, and dripping seawater, flung a long tail of wet auburn hair off her shoulder. In her hand was a dagger, and this she touched to her brow in a jaunty salute.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” she said brightly, as another, smaller figure crawled
through the window after her. “I am Captain Maeve Merrick, and this, my quartermaster, Orla O’Shaughnessy.”
Nelson stared, his mouth falling open.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said with a mischievous grin. “Perhaps you’ve not heard of me? I
am the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean.” She swept a jaunty, ludicrous bow. “Welcome to the Indies, milord!”
Chapter 6
“Sentry!” Nelson roared, recovering. “Sentry!”
Captain Colin Lord dived protectively in front of the admiral as the door crashed open and a surprised Royal Marine charged in.
Maeve’s sudden shout pierced the air.
“No, milord! I bring you news of Villeneuve/”
Stepping impatiently around Colin, Nelson raised his hand to stay the marine. He stared at Maeve with an expression of fury and disbelief.
“What did you say?”
“I said, I bring you news of Villeneuve!”
Tense silence. The sigh of wind around the stern. The stamp of feet as more marines came
running, an outcry of voices, shouts . . . and the slow, stealthy movement of Captain Lord’s hand toward his sword before Orla’s dagger impaled the carpet two inches from his foot.
The admiral gave an agitated jerk of his head. “Leave us,” he snapped. “I am sure that
Captain Lord and I can handle this situation!”
One by one, the marines filed out, leaving the two to assess each other; the stiff little admiral and the savage pirate queen, each taking the other’s measure like two fleets squaring off before a battle.
Nelson saw a wild, wet, untamed beauty with gold earrings tangled in hair the color of fire; a face tanned to bronze, glittering gold eyes of sunlight and sin, a graceful neck ringed by a choker of sharks’ teeth; he saw elegant hands, long coltish legs, bare feet, frayed and soaked trousers cut off at the knee, and a purple blouse tucked into a leather belt.
And Maeve, looking at this schoolboy-sized admiral whose height rivaled that of her chin, saw the total antithesis of what she had expected—and the smile faded from her lips as raw disappointment swept in to take its place.
So much for heroes, she thought, feeling somewhat cheated. These days they must’ve gone the way of gallant knights. This one stood fiercely erect which did nothing to accentuate his height, and had a pale, sickly little face unremarkable in aspect, save for the bold nose and penetrating eye, out of which glowed a fire that even approaching blindness could not dim. The admiral’s features were open, honest, earnest, energetic, vulnerable, anxious, and melancholy all at once. She saw suffering in his eyes, in the lines of his cheeks, in the rough scar that cleaved his right brow. The armless sleeve was pinned carefully over a chest bedecked with enough medals, stars, and orders to make the heavens look dim and deprived in comparison.
Surely, this small fellow could not be the hero proclaimed in broadside and ballad? Surely, this little gamecock was not the sailor who was the subject of newspaper jibes and huzzahs alike, paintings, poems, and sculpture, with everything from flowers to plants to streets named after him? Surely, this slight man could not be the dread of the French, the pride of the British Navy?
Another fairy tale, blown to hell.
“Captain Lord! Do you know this woman?!”
Maeve’s attention swept to the handsome, fair-haired officer held at bay by Orla’s sword.
His face was carefully schooled into calmness, but his color was pale and she guessed he had indeed heard of her. “Aye, sir,” he answered, staring at her as though she was something out of his darkest nightmares. “Or shall I say, I know of her . . . She’s a pirate operating out of the Windwards—”
Nelson roared, “Ever prey upon an English ship?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir—”
“Ever plague English shipping? Annoy English convoys?”
“No, sir—”
“Ever irritate His Majesty’s vessels, officers, or seamen in and around the Indies?”
“No, sir, but—”
The admiral swung fiercely on Maeve. “Sit down!”
“Thank you,” she said archly, “but I prefer to—”
“I said, sit down!” roared the little lion, and Maeve, her belief in heroes happily restored, did so with a huge smile curving her lips.
He came right up to her, the stump of his arm jerking beneath his sleeve in agitation, his eyes fierce and angry. “You,” he said sh
arply, slamming his hand on the table and leaning down to glare into her face, “have just damaged Crown property and your reason for doing so had better be a damned good one, so help me God!”
She laughed, her heart singing. This was the Nelson of song and legend, this was the hero she’d long dreamed of meeting, this was— '
“Answer me!”
Still smiling, Maeve leaned over the table, plucked an apple from the silver bowl there, and bit into it with a loud crunch that shattered the strained silence of the cabin. The admiral bristled.
The handsome officer went a shade whiter and found a sudden interest in a small cut on his knuckle.
Another man, wearing a captain’s uniform, stormed into the cabin, pistol primed and ready and pointed directly at Maeve’s heart.
“For God’s sake,” Nelson said curtly, “I do believe I have the situation under control. Pray, sit down, Hardy, this beauteous female is about to reveal to us the whereabouts of Veal-noove.”
She took another bite of her apple and looked up. “Ah, Nelson’s famous flag-captain.”
Maeve munched, swallowed, and grinned. “Don’t doubt me, milord. I have the Sight.”
“The wha t?”
“The Sight.” She took another bite and, with the point of her knife, pried a sliver of apple out from between her front teeth. Nelson narrowed his eyes. Hardy, now seated, looked shocked.
The fair-haired Captain Lord—still staring intently, unnervingly, at her— flushed with
embarrassment, his cheeks pinkening in a way that was almost endearing. “It’s the Irish gift of being able to see the future,” she said casually. “Predict events. Interpret meaning in signs and symbols. You see, I was born with the caul over my head and I am all-knowing.”
My Lady Pirate Page 6