And so it had happened that Hornigold sailed away with a small band of loyal men and Sam Bellamy found himself in command of a sloop named Mary Anne and a pack of rowdy, hard-drinking sea tars clamoring for silver, gold—and always, a fight.
And as his new ship, Whydah, drove onward toward Cape Cod, Sam smiled and watched the mist and fog swirling beyond the stern windows.
Maria.
In a matter of hours, Cape Cod’s bleak shoreline would hove into view above the horizon. In a matter of hours she would be in his arms, her lips clinging to his with the passion of a year denied, her silken thighs wrapping themselves about his hips as he took her with him to the very ends of pleasure….
Just a few more hours, after all this time.
Lying on his bunk, he crossed his arms behind his head and thought of what awaited him in Eastham. Would gentle Maria Hallett reject him? Aye, he was a pirate, but she had loved him—and his recent crimes against honest seafaring folk were perfectly justified. After all, those who could afford big ships and wealthy cargoes could also afford to lose them. There was no harm in spreading the wealth around a bit, Robin Hood style.
She would understand.
And will you tell her the real reason you went on the account? Because it wasn’t just about the disappointment of the sunken treasure fleet.
No, it was not. He stroked his unshaven chin, his eyes narrowing. He’d always been a recalcitrant, a trait that had earned him a brutal flogging that should’ve killed him—and nearly did—during his service with the Royal Navy. Piracy provided the means to get his revenge upon a system that hadn’t tolerated his disobedience to authority, a system that protected the rich and the privileged and damn well got what it deserved from those who were neither.
He forced such dark thoughts from his mind. He would not let anger and bitterness taint his excitement at seeing Maria again. Instead, he thought of the vast treasure stored belowdecks, and imagined how their reunion would be….
Whydah, plunging onward, the sea foaming over her bows and elegant teak decks…. Whydah, bursting free of the mists and bearing down on Cape Cod in majestic splendor, wind bellying every taut, bulging sail, every gun run out in brazen challenge…. And he, Sam Bellamy, no longer just a no-account seaman, a foreigner who wasn’t good enough for Eastham’s most beautiful maiden, but a prince—a free prince, as his men called him—in command upon the quarterdeck, his clothes as fine as any London lord’s, the devil himself the only entity that didn’t fear and respect him. How Maria’s eyes would light up when he took her hand and led her aboard this magnificent ship, how she’d squeal with excitement when she saw the great sacks of Spanish reales, the chests of gold doubloons, the caches of emeralds, the diamonds that were so brilliant that it hurt the eye to look at them; indigo, ivory, beautiful silks, satins, cloths. It was a vast treasure all right, safely tucked away in the hold beneath him, enough riches to buy—he grinned—a princess.
And soften a shrewish aunt.
He allowed himself to imagine the crone’s reaction when he brought Whydah straight into Billingsgate—or better yet, Provincetown Harbor—and set the town on its ear. He chuckled darkly. Better yet, just imagine setting close to two hundred pirates loose among those bloody Puritans….
He thought back upon the past year. Of the plundering, the hell-raising, the trail of infamy he’d left throughout the Caribbean as he’d built both a fleet and a name for himself. Of giving the old Mary Anne to Paul Williams when he’d moved on to bigger ships, better ships, faster ships, including the one he sailed now.
Ah, Whydah. Absently, he fingered the coin that hung suspended from a chain of beaten gold around his neck. Whydah, with her majestic spread of sail and masts that scraped the very clouds. Whydah, with her carved, proud figurehead—the bird of paradise—dipping toward the foamy seas with every plunge of her long, graceful jib-boom. Whydah…. By God, how he’d wanted her, vowed to have her when she’d shown up in the salt-smeared field of his glass as they’d skimmed through the Windward Passage. For three days he’d chased her, shouting encouragement to his just-as-eager crew until his throat had gone raw and even mugs of spiced rum could no longer soothe it. And on that third day, when her captain had struck her colors to his Jolly Roger after firing a halfhearted shot from her chasers, Sam had been so elated at getting Whydah intact and unscathed that he’d rewarded the man with his pick of the cargo, a ship, and enough sterling to see him back home to England.
Aye, he was a rogue all right, and now a damned good outlaw as well, but never let it be said that he, Sam Bellamy, was not a generous man.
But this afternoon he was a weary one, for he’d spent the better part of last night tossing and turning beneath the blanket that Maria had made for him so long ago, and the remainder of it adding another prize ship to his growing fleet. Aye, he was weary, but he’d soon be with his Eastham lass, she with her hair as bright as the chains of gold with which he’d soon drape her neck. She with her gilded lashes, the innocent, sea-green pools beneath them that he could very well drown in. Curves as lush as a rain forest, ardor as hot as a tropical afternoon—yes, he’d be with her soon.
Very soon.
Somewhere around six bells of the mid-watch, thanks to the help of some Jamaican rum taken from his last prize, he’d finally fallen into a brief, restless slumber that had lasted until the crack of dawn, when cries from the masthead had jarred him awake. But Sam, tired and short-tempered, hadn’t shared his crew’s eagerness to take the fat, stubby little pink as a prize, especially when he learned that its cargo consisted of that one commodity valued almost (but not quite, mind you) as much as the Spanish silver that made every good pirate’s mouth water.
Tipple.
But his rambunctious young crew had no headaches knocking on their skulls from overindulgence and lack of sleep, no lovers awaiting them in Eastham, and no reason this side of hell not to add another ship with a fat cargo of Madeira wine to their growing fleet even if she was just a leaky old pink. As all decisions were made aboard pirate ships, a vote had been taken—and so had the ship.
A bothersome move, Sam thought, although at any other time he would have enjoyed a cargo of spirits as much as the next man, if not more so. In fact, if it weren’t for her cargo of Madeira he would’ve scuttled the damned pink and sent her to the bottom where her grave already waited, for she was so leaky that she now lagged astern of them by a good mile. ’Twas a damned pity they hadn’t been able to get the wine out of her. But the pipes of Madeira had been packed in tighter than fleas on a cur, the anchor cable coiled over the hatch only complicating matters. Eager to get to Eastham, Sam had put a prize crew aboard her with orders ringing in their ears to follow in the wake of Whydah and Anne, a Scottish-built snow to which he’d taken a fancy somewhere off the capes of Virginia, and hoisted sail once more.
Impatience dogged him. Restlessness. His temper grew short.
And as the afternoon wore on, the weather grew dirty.
All of it was enough to put him into a foul mood, helped by the fact that the pink’s captain, one Andrew Crumpstey, had insulted Whydah’s quartermaster and was now paying for it chained below until Sam could decide just what to do with him. And what of the seven pirates he’d put as a prize crew aboard the wine pink? They’d likely broken into her cargo before her topsails had even filled; no doubt, they’d be so damned far into their cups by the time night fell he’d be lucky to ever see them again. And with a storm grumbling on the horizon, his mood blackened.
The door banged open. “Cap’n?”
He stared up at the deck beams above. “What is it, damn you?”
“Mr. Davis ‘as spotted a sloop bearin’ down on us from the south’rd, sir. Prob’ly ain’t seen us yet.” The pirate, a meddlesome lad named Stripes, shoved his hands into his pockets. Behind him stood Peter Madigan, a sad-eyed orphan with a broken grin and a freckled nose. “Crew’s clamorin’ to come about, sir, an’ sneak up on ’er before she can turn tail an’ run.”
Bloody thundering hell. Sam swung his legs off the bunk and kneaded his brow. Obviously, he was not going to get any rest this afternoon.
“Shall we give chase then, Cap’n?”
“Has it been put to a vote?”
“The crew’s waitin’ fer yers, sir.”
“Fine. I’ll be up momentarily.”
Stripes nodded, made a hasty exit with Madigan and left Sam to his headache, his black mood, and the aggravation that came with being the leader of two hundred tars who were as unruly and quarrelsome as a pack of terriers thrown into the same pit. He went to the stern windows and leaned against the barrel of one of the big four-pounders there. The gun sat quietly in its carriage, having earned its keep as a chaser many times over. But there was nothing to see in the gathering mists beyond the windows; nothing but his own thoughts, his fears, and yes, his worries about what he’d find when he got to Eastham.
With a resigned sigh, “Black” Sam Bellamy, pirate captain, slung a brace of pistols around his neck, retrieved his cutlass, and made his way topside to the quarterdeck, where his men awaited him.
* * *
Small, sturdy, and well-built, the sloop Fisher boasted many leagues beneath her keel and a suit of sails that were all but lost in the fog wrapped about her mast. Sea-wise and salt-eaten, she wasn’t much to look at and didn’t carry a fabulously wealthy cargo, yet the galley that slid like a ghost out of the mists just south of Cape Cod had a very obvious interest in her.
Her master, one Robert Ingols, stood nervously near her helm, one hand wrapped around a shroud, the other sweating so badly he had to discreetly wipe it on the skirts of his coat. He frowned as a flag slid up the galley’s mainmast to join the proud English colors already there and broke to the wind. Fear gripped his heart, for staring him down from that black banner was a grinning white skull atop a pair of crossed bones.
The Jolly Roger.
“You were right, sir,” said Ralph Merry beside him, his face white with fear. “Pirates. They say Black Bellamy’s been seen in these waters lately.” Ralph swallowed hard, trying to peer through the swirling mist. “Shall we strike our colors, sir?”
“Unless we want to be blown from here to hell, I’d say that’s a very wise decision.” Ingols slid a finger beneath his damp, suddenly-too-tight stock. “We haven’t a prayer of outsailing them. Their ports are open, and—by God, how many guns do they have on that thing?”
Ralph peered through the fog at the oncoming galley, the last of the color draining from his face. “Twenty-eight? Thirty? And look, they’ve mounted swivel guns, too. The ship’s a damned arsenal.”
“’Tis a wonder she’s still afloat with that many guns. Yes, get the colors down and be quick about it. No telling what these devils’ll do if we resist them.” Ingols stole a glance at the patches of sky now visible through the sliding tendrils of fog. A thick bank of clouds sat on the horizon to the east and overhead, several gulls were winging their way toward shore. “Just what we need, a damned storm to complicate matters. We’ll give them what they want and if we’re lucky, damned lucky, maybe we’ll be able to make port before the weather turns bad.”
Ingols braced himself upon Fisher’s rolling deck as the galley slid closer, her pennants and topsails lost in mist, her hull glistening with spray, her sails majestic and proud. She was a graceful, soaring hawk, a predator—beautiful, free—and just as deadly.
And now she was so close that he could hear the shouts of her crew, the rumble of guns being rolled into her ports, and the chilling sound of the pirate musicians’ band as they beat upon drums and sounded trumpets in an act meant to intimidate him into surrender. But he needed no encouragement. The sight of that bristling warship alone was enough to make him quail in his boots.
And now, sliding out of the tail of the fog bank were the distinctive shapes of two more ships following in her wake.
Heavens, did these pirates have a cursed fleet?
“For God’s sake, get that flag down now!” he barked.
Fisher’s colors sank in defeat. Men worked furiously to strike her sails. The sloop lost headway, stalled, then lay rocking in the choppy seas. Helplessly, Ingols watched the pirate ship drink up the distance between them, the curl of water at her bow falling off as she shortened sail and hove to.
And now the sounds coming from her made his blood run cold. Random pistol shots, raucous laughter, a gleeful curse. And then, the clipped voice of a West Countryman, ringing out across the water.
“Greetings, lads! We are of the sea! Where are ye from, and where are ye bound?”
Ingols searched for the speaker, his gaze sweeping the horde of rowdy young men milling at the pirate ship’s rail. And then he saw him.
He stood leaning against the mainmast, unbothered by the rock of the ship. He was tall, dark and fierce, his coat of burgundy velvet decorated with gold braid, brass buttons trailing down its open front and its skirts, stiffened with buckram, flaring fashionably out at the waist. A pretender, this pirate. But while he might have resembled a blooded aristocrat, no London nobleman looked, as this man did, like the devil incarnate.
A thick, magnificent mane of windblown black hair fell wild and unkempt to broad, powerful shoulders. His face was unshaven, his gleaming smile a direct contrast to the darkness of his hair, his skin, his eyes. And those eyes! Keen and bold yet shining with a clever, calculating light, a glimmer of some barely-hinted-at knowledge, a flicker of arrogant self-confidence that was echoed in his proud stance and the way in which he seemed to command everything within his sphere of influence.
Ingols knew it was the legendary Black Sam Bellamy, knew it even before the current swung the pirate ship’s stern toward him and the name across her counter confirmed it—Whydah.
“Lord help us,” he prayed, but was not granted the opportunity to study the man further.
“God’s blood, I asked you your port and destination! Answer me, damn you, or pay for your insolence with your life!”
Ingols’s voice sounded pitifully feeble, even to his own ears. “I am Robert Ingols, and the sloop is Fisher, out of Virginia and bound for Boston. Our cargo is naught but tobacco and a shipment of hides—nothing of great value.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Are ye her master, then?”
“Aye, that I am.”
The pirate captain moved forward, his eyes dark with cunning. “For Boston, ye say? Why, I’ll bet ye’ve sailed these waters more times than ye can count.”
“Indeed, sir,” Ingols said, wondering what the pirate was leading up to—and unknowingly digging his own grave, though it would be hours before that fact would become apparent. He mopped the sweat from his brow, trying to control his nerves. “If you want our cargo, take it. I mean no offense, but I haven’t the time for small talk. There’s a storm coming on, and I’d like to reach safer waters than these before it’s upon us.”
One of the pirate’s black brows rose. “Let me clarify something for you, Captain Ingols. Whether you do or don’t have time for talk is no longer your concern, but mine. Prepare to receive boarders.”
Ralph Merry leaned close to Ingols’s ear. “I wouldn’t anger him if I were you, sir,” he advised. “I, for one, would like to live to see tomorrow.”
“Quiet,” Ingols said in a strangled voice.
The pirate captain ignored their exchange, jerking his head to give an unspoken order to several savage-looking men awaiting his command. He turned his penetrating gaze upon them once more. “Besides, it’s not your damned cargo I want, but your sloop. That, and your help in guiding my fleet through these shoal waters and into Provincetown Harbor.” His eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t be too difficult, should it? Do that, and do it to my satisfaction, and perhaps I’ll even give ye your sloop back.”
“Is that all he wants?” Ralph whispered eagerly. “For you to lead him and his fleet up the coast? Tell him yes, Cap’n! For God’s sake, please!”
Ingols gripped his hands behind his back, trying to summon his cou
rage. The Black Bellamy had him right where he wanted him and knew it. With an apprehensive glance at the distant cloud bank, growing darker by the moment, Ingols took a deep and steadying breath. “I suppose I have no choice but to comply, do I?”
“Not unless you’d rather be dinner for the sharks beneath your keel,” the pirate returned, his words belying his bland smile.
“Yes, yes, of course I wouldn’t think of refusing,” Ingols sputtered. “Indeed, sir, I’d be honored to assist you in any way that I can.”
“A wise decision.” The pirate’s eyes crinkled in good humor. “Hoist out your longboat, Ingols, and come across before the seas get any rougher.”
It was not a question but a command. A rogue, an outlaw, a pirate, with the manners of a nobleman. And the arrogance, too.
Ingols yelled for his longboat to be prepared but his men, terrified of Bellamy and his bristling, belligerent mob, were already at the task. Swallowing hard, he looked back toward Whydah, where the pirate captain—nay, the pirate prince, he corrected himself, for that was just what this man appeared to be—was striding through his pack of outlaws like a ruler among his subjects. A glimpse of his retreating back, the colorful flash of his pleated coat, and then he was gone, leaving only a crowd of unruly, unkempt ruffians in his wake.
With a sense of doom, Ingols turned, climbed over the gunwale, and descended the Jacob’s ladder to where the longboat awaited him in the restless waters below.
He could not know that his sense of doom was well-founded.
Ingols would not live to see another sunrise.
* * *
By the time he stepped onto Whydah’s teak deck, Ingols was sweating beneath his coat. He wondered if the pirates could smell the stink of his fear. Wondered if these brigands would torture him, slit his throat, throw him over the side when he’d given them what they wanted. He tightened his hand on his sword, and was greeted by a young man in a ragged shirt and blue-and-white-striped cotton trousers who dropped from the shrouds with the grace of a cat. “No need fer ye t’ look so scared,” the pirate said. “The cap’n’s a man of ’is word. He’ll give ye yer ship back if ye do ’is bidding.”
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