Love Me With Fury

by Janelle Taylor

  She grinned in wicked pleasure, contemplating his surprise upon awakening from her stunning blow. A prickling of fear and anxiety tugged at her. What if he had been injured badly? What if he had later died from that injury? What if he had been unable to seek help? She had been too frightened to risk going back to the pond to see if he had recovered and left. In spite of his vile treatment, she prayed for his survival. She resolved to return to the pond when she went home. She could only hope she would not find his body still there. To ease her guilt and tension, she had to learn his fate and identity…

  She gazed up at the round yellow moon overhead and sadly murmured, “America for a month…Oh, Stephen, please be all right…”

  While several hundred miles southeastward, another pair of dreamy eyes was watching that same moon and whispering softly, “Spain, then home… Virginia at last…Farewell, my enchanting siren, until we meet again…”

  V

  “0 brave new world

  that has such people in’t.”

  —The Tempest, William Shakespeare

  A voice full of confidence and pride shouted, “Strike the Union Jack! Hoist the Spanish flag! Pile all canvas! George, check the mizzenmast! She looks to tangle! Danny, bring ‘er around to 40° yaw! Then, hold her steady as she goes; give’er her leeway!” The deep tone could be heard over the snapping and popping of the white wings above them, the crashing of the mighty waves against the hull and the gusty breeze which filled those awesome sails to take them into the Spanish port. “Tim, stow those hawzers! Harley, check the mainsail knot on the bowsprit; her shape’s changing!”

  Spencer’s proud gaze lazily eased over the stirring sight before it. His crew of one hundred seventeen men was skillful and loyal. He couldn’t have located a more qualified, steady-handed wheelman than Danny if he had searched the world over. As for his good friend and first mate Andrew Pennington—Andy was his bright, brave right-hand man. After this present trouble was settled, Andy would become the new captain of the Black Mist, while Spencer returned to Great Britain to honor his promise to Will. Naturally his ship would require a new coat of paint and a new name; her reputation and colors were too well known for private business. Once Spencer’s personal life and family duty were realized, he could then decide whether or not to return to his ship and the carefree life of the sea. Two more measly years of freedom, excitement, and happiness!

  He shuddered in repulsion. Matrimony? Horse feathers! He focused his sights and attention upon his ship. She was a beauty. She was sleek and swift; she responded to his commands with grace and promptness. Her aura was majestic and proud. She, along with her crew and captain, demanded recognition and respect. Her decks were always scrubbed and polished; her sails boasted care and attention. Her crew was cheerful and responsive, both to her and her intrepid captain. No scar from any past battle marred her sides or decks. Like a special lady, she was loved and pampered and she was a compelling and intoxicating sight to behold.

  Normally painted black to conceal herself at evening tide when she did most of her work, she now displayed a swatch of blood red around her entire hull with designs of white waves as a disguise. The black coverings for the white sails had been taken down and stowed out of sight. Spencer frowned in annoyance, wishing his beloved ship was not colored up like some brazen harlot! “Soon, my love, you will be your old self again,” he softly crooned to her as if she were indeed some female lover. “Once we leave Spain, you can become your mysterious, elusive lady self again.”

  Those lazy thoughts called another one to mind: the mythical legend of the black mist. He humorously pondered the days of yore when seamen actually took stock in such legends and tall tales; even now many still believed and feared them. To this very day, no man had ever seen Circe, sea-sirens, mermaids, sea monsters, or the black mist; yet many drunken, terrified weaklings claimed they had. Spencer chuckled at the recall of such foolish rantings. If such things existed, he would have glimpsed at least one by now in all his countless journeys.

  He had played upon those irrational fears and superstitions when he had named his ship after the most frightening legend of all. He frequently went out of his way to increase his foes’ fear and to further that legend to his own advantage. Whenever a dense gray mist was sighted, he would use its cover to lie in wait for an unsuspecting enemy ship who failed to observe his black ship which vanished before that stygian backdrop. When that ship was within range, he would suddenly swoop down upon her, catching her by complete surprise, appearing out of nowhere, easily conquering her, then vanishing back into the protective covering of moonless night.

  He had become so skilled at this cunning ploy that most ships would instantly give quarter, knowing a fierce battle would be futile and would leave them helplessly stranded in mid-ocean. This crafty ploy and his infamous reputation prevented a great deal of bloodshed and destruction, for Spencer’s main purpose was to confiscate messages and supplies between Great Britain and her accomplices on American soil. As he stood there in the moonlight with the gentle breeze caressing his bronzed face, that legend ran through his dreamy mind.

  In times long past when the face of the mighty ocean was dotted with the wooden ships of good and evil, a powerful goddess watched over her watery world and gave her aid to those deserving ships and captains who found love and favor in her starry eyes and who were in grave danger of destruction by the forces of greed. It was said that when a ship and her captain proved worthy of survival and success in her eyes, she protected them with veils of misty, night-black hair. For when such a worthy ship was set upon by those who would plunder and dishonor her, this benevolent goddess removed the silvery pins from her midnight mane and trailed it over the chosen ship, concealing her from view.

  To the eyes of evil, those stygian tresses appeared as some mysterious and deadly black mist. No one knew where it came from; no one knew to where it vanished. But once that magical black mist had lifted, one ship sailed on in safety while the other one lay forever lost within some shadowy realm of magical nothingness. The goddess then replaced her silvery pins and once more the sky was clear and the sea was tranqil.

  If that legend were true, it could explain that odd mist which seemed to magically and mysteriously appear when he had great need of it! For once again forces of greed and evil were drifting upon the face of the sea, endangering the ships and lives of a newly born nation. Had this promising land mutely cried out for her help? Had she actually heard them and was she taking note of at least one certain, brave ship which bears the name of her legend? Strange, it did seem to be present each time he was in danger. Stranger still, no other ship seemed capable of using it safely. Was it merely his own keen instincts and talents, or was there more to it?

  He laughed at such ridiculous speculations. Yet, another inexplicable mystery invaded his mind: Angelique. Like the curious black mist, she had come in secret, offering no clue as to where she came from or to where she vanished, disappearing just as mysteriously without a trace…It was utterly impossible that Angel had truly been the black mist goddess who had decided to finally make her face known to him! Had she, like Zeus, come to Earth to mate with a mortal of her choice? Why hadn’t he been able to locate her? Why had no one ever seen or heard of her? Why was she unknown and unseen by all human eyes except his?

  He instantly scolded himself, “Stow it, Spencer, old boy! You’re sounding as crazy as the rest of them! The legend is pure fantasy, but Angelique is very real.” Somewhere she was alive and undoubtedly laughing at him. One day, he would find her!

  He threw back his head and inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of the ocean. That never-ending feeling of freedom and excitement coursed through his veins like molten lava. After two weeks on dry land, it felt exhilarating to have his feet planted upon the deck of his powerful frigate, soon to be sailing homeward.

  The wind whipped through his sable hair; seaspray drifted into his smiling face, leaving a salty reminder of its presence. He absorbed the crisp fragrance which
was the sea’s alone. The heady song of the open water and harmonious melody of daring adventure called out to him. Braced against the rolling of the awesome sea, he refused to deliberate further upon the breathtaking girl who had entered his life one sunlit day, only to leave it that same glorious afternoon. Already they were miles and miles apart…perhaps even a lifetime by now. At a running speed of thirteen knots, the distance between them was steadily widening with each hour. She was somewhere in Great Britain; soon, he would be in America. Well underway to Spain, he finally left the forecastle to get some much needed rest.

  About mid-morning that following day, Spencer went to his cabin to withdraw the papers for which he had risked his life, fortune, and name. He studied the pages and notes carefully and intently. His blue eyes widened in shock; his jaw dropped and tensed. Viewing the incredible facts and figures upon those sheets of paper, he hurried top-side and called out new orders to his crew. He commanded a faster pace if at all possible.

  Distressed by the reports which were now hidden in his cabin, he debated the necessity of his voyage to Spain. Which destination was more vital, more pressing? He furiously cursed the girl who had caused him to delay; he berated and lambasted the lovely female who had taken his mind from his critical mission. While that monumental file had rested in the secret compartment of his sea trunk, he had been racing across the British countryside in search of an elusive angel. So much for being the benevolent sea goddess! If he ever got his hands upon her tawny throat, he would strangle her!

  He seriously deliberated his two choices. If he had set out for Spain to confer with Joseph Bonaparte immediatley after that file was in his possession, he would be on his way to Virginia and Madison right this moment. If that folder was accurate, which he dreaded it was, America was in deep trouble. It was clear that the British were well aware of the power and hostile intent of the War-Hawks; they were now plotting to be one step ahead of the Americans at all times. What a fool he had been! Careless and selfish! For at this moment, his new country was in greater danger—because of him!

  He apprehensively paced the deck in deep and brooding speculation. Spain or America? Since the French Minister Serurier should be reporting to Napoleon within a few weeks, was it truly necessary to take the time to discuss a possible American stronghold at San Augustin? The problem was that America couldn’t risk the British taking possession of a port so near to them. Spencer wondered if Napoleon knew of the talk in America about going to war with both Britain and France if these conflicts continued. Americans wouldn’t take much more interference in their commerce, especially not the wanton destruction of her ships and goods upon the open seas. Could he convince the French, who held Florida through their grip on Spain, to permit the Americans to protect the properties of both countries?

  He sighed in frustration and uncertainty. Florida and Spain were only too conscious of the greed of certain Americans. America’s determination to affix Florida to the United States was no secret. Had Joseph Bonaparte received news of Mathews’s and Smith’s aggressions in Florida only a few weeks past? If so, he wouldn’t be in a cooperative mood. Did Spain also know that Commandant Justo Lopez had recently surrendered Fernandina to Campbell’s flotilla? Had they been alerted to Smith’s march on San Augustin? If so, none of these events would sit well with them.

  Hopefully Madison’s prompt reactions would soothe their ruffled feathers. The President had disavowed the hostile actions of those overly zealous colonials. He had immediately ordered the Americans to withdraw and to settle themselves upon nearby Amelia Island to await the results of his talks with Joseph Bonaparte in Spain, Foreign Minister Luis de Onis, and Governor Juan de Estrada.

  Spencer laughed bitterly to himself. How could he possibly convince Spain of America’s unselfish, generous proposals when Rhea had forcefully seized western Florida and had declared her free of Spanish rule? How could the American intention be viewed as friendly and helpful when Mathews, Smith, Campbell, and McIntosh were doing their damnedest to conquer northeastern Florida as well?

  Spain should realize that Florida was too distant to be advantageous to her. She had been drained financially by her conflicts; she was being presently ruled by Napoleon’s incompetent brother. Was the entire world going insane? What had happened to peace and prosperity? Too many men from so many lands were out for personal gain and glory. Why was it so impossible for Britain, France, Spain, and America to sit down together and to intelligently work out some peaceful and lasting solution to joint problems which seemed interwoven with each of them? The whole bloody situation was too complicated.

  The dazzling sun reflected off the choppy waves, causing Spencer to squint his blue eyes and to furrow his brow. He absently rubbed the smoothness of his neatly shaven face as bits of information jammed the steady flow and progress of logical ideas. He shrugged, making his decision. Spain could wait; those papers could not. With a little more effort and energy, he could settle matters with Luis de Onis and de Estrada. Besides, he hadn’t relished the idea of meeting with that popinjay who sat upon the Spanish throne.

  “Ahoy, crew!” he called out from mid-ship. “We sail for home!” he shouted above the roaring elements of nature, bringing cheers from his men. “Bring us about, Danny! The cross winds are greedy today; strike half-sails on the mizzenmasts! We’re listing too far portside! Strike the Spanish flag, Andy! Hoist the Virginia white; that should bloody well confuse any contemptuous British frigate! George, hold the Grand Union and Jolly Roger in readiness! Let’s see if we can make the shores of Virginia within two weeks,” he encouraged them, knowing it would more likely take three to four weeks.

  Within moments, the crew was diligently performing their chores while singing a bawdy ditty. A mirthful grin flickered upon the captain’s face; his eyes twinkled in elation. Feet clad in shiny Hessian boots, he swaggered agilely to the poop deck. Fawn colored breeches clung tightly to his sinewy thighs like a second skin. His white linen shirt was opened half the distance between his throat and waist, full sleeves billowing in the gusty breeze. A silver saber, always present upon his lithe body when at sea, swung from his narrow hips with each nimble movement. A black bandana was secured loosely around his neck, ever ready to be tied into place about his forehead, denying all enemies the identity of the notorious and fearless Captain Joshua Steele, the invincible and puissant pirate who paraded as a patriotic American privateer…

  “Coffee, Capt’n Steele?” the cook called out from his side.

  Spencer turned to face him, smiling amicably with the sheer delight of being alive and skimming across the expanse of blue before him. “It’d be much appreciated, Tully,” he replied in a lazy drawl. The awe and affection which always shone brightly within his cook’s eyes never ceased to warm him. He smiled at the barrel-chested man with his shiny, bald pate and sparkling brown eyes. If ever there was a man totally satisfied with his lot in life, it was Tully O’Shay. His impish smile and engaging charm could melt the coldest heart or brighten the dullest day. To add to his favorable traits, he was a superb cook; he had a knack for making the worst fare look, smell, and taste better. The crew adored him.

  Tully nodded and grinned, then left to fetch the coffee. First mate Andrew Pennington joined his captain. He chuckled roguishly and playfully teased, “Tell me, Jos…why do you keep casting those wishful looks over your shoulder? Something special you left back there?”

  Smoldering flames radiated a light from the captain’s eyes which baffled and astonished Andrew. Spencer confessed before thinking, “You might say she was really something else!” Annoyed by his unwitting admission, he chuckled and smugly declared, “But not unforgettable. What female is?” he arrogantly sneered, rubbing the tender spot where that little witch had struck him. He moodily gazed off into the unseeable distance.

  Andrew observed him suspiciously and perceptively. The captain could deny any real interest in that unknown female all he wanted, but Andrew knew him well enough to realize that his best friend had not di
smissed some bewitching creature from his mind. Odd, Joshua didn’t normally give any female an afterthought, but especially not any pensive meditation like this girl was receiving. Unable to stifle his curiosity, he casually quizzed, “Who is she, Josh? Have you known her long?”

  “Who is who, Andy?” Spencer parried, feigning indifference. For once, his blue eyes belied his words and cunning.

  Andrew wasn’t fooled and laughed heartily. “The female who makes your eyes light up when you think about her, the beautiful woman you reluctantly left back there,” he smugly declared, pointing past the stern of the Black Mist toward Britain. “Somehow I don’t think missing your meeting with Bonaparte, or deserting some tavern doxy, or leaving an old friend behind explains that miserable dejected expression and your somber mood. I’d venture to say that some ravishing feline gave you more to think about than your current mission. Right?” he challenged.

  Spencer’s penetrating gaze engulfed Andy’s mocking grin and taunting amber eyes. “Since when does your duty include harassing and teasing your captain?” he genially rebuked Andy.

  Andy chuckled humorously. “We’ve been mates too long for you to conceal such a troubled spirit. If you don’t want to talk about her, fine; but don’t go trying to convince me she doesn’t exist,” he exclaimed—yet, his gaze revealed concern and sincerity.

  “Exist?” Spencer gloomily echoed. “I’m not positive myself that she does! One minute she’s lying beside me; the next, she’s vanished like a morning mist. I scouted the entire area. Not a soul knew anything about her; and, mind you, she wasn’t a female who could go unnoticed! If she were real, someone would know something about her. A girl that beautiful and exquisite couldn’t be overlooked. Maybe she was only an illusion. Maybe naiads and sea sirens do exist. Either way, as far as I could discover, she presented herself only to me and then only for two hours,” he snarled in renewed frustration and disappointment.