Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  She swallowed, carefully set her canvas bag down beside her foot, and tried very hard to look important. “I want to sign aboard.”

  “Sign aboard what?”

  “Why, this boa—I mean, ship, o’ course.”

  He stared at her as if she’d gone mad. “Ye mean, ye actually want to volunteer?”

  “Isn’t that the way it’s done?”

  The Scotsman glanced at his companions, took off his cap, and scratched his head. No one spoke, until at last, the sinister-looking man in the officer’s uniform cleared his throat. He moved with silken grace and had cold, sullen eyes containing about as much warmth as the bitter wind that cuffed the Solent into a mass of frothy white horses. “I’m Lieutenant Russell Rhodes. You want to sign aboard, eh?” He seized her canvas bag and, heedless of her frightened gasp, tossed it to the Scotsman before Deirdre had time to protest. “Well, then, let’s see if you qualify. Climb that mast and don’t stop till you reach the maintop— using the futtocks, of course.”

  Futtocks? It was all she could do not to reach for her notes to see what a “futtocks” was. “But . . . but don’t I have to sign somethin’?”

  “Just get your arse up that pole!” roared the pirate, stepping forward and brandishing his cutlass.

  “Aye, that’s all the signing we’ll ask of ye!” snarled a big, dirty hulk of a man covered with a mat of brown hair. His odor alone was bad enough to send Deirdre scurrying to the mast

  “Jesus,” said the Scotsman, slapping his broad forehead. “The tyke don’t even know how to climb it!”

  “Go to the gangway and use the shrouds, ye idiot!”

  The pirate waved his cutlass in her face. Digging her nails into her palms, Deirdre looked up at the tall mast and choked back her fear, for it seemed to hold up the clouds themselves. Then the Scotsman shoved her toward the network of black, tarry ropes that ran skyward like narrow, tapering pyramids from the side of the ship.

  “Those are the shrouds,” he said gently. “Use them like a ladder. Ye ken, laddie?”

  Deirdre pressed her hand to her shirt, seeking the comfort of the cross. Then, biting her lip, she nodded, grasped the tarry, ice-coated shrouds, and began to ascend. She climbed one step. Two. Three steps up, she looked down and, shivering, found the tip of the pirate’s cutlass two inches from her nose. He was grinning evilly.

  There was no going back. Not now.

  Whimpering and nearing hysteria, Deirdre took a fourth step, clinging to the harsh ropes like a treed cat afraid to move. The deck was only a few feet beneath her, but she was off its solidness now, and she could feel the sway and movement of the big ship right through her hands and up through the soles of her feet.

  “I can just see him in a storm,” muttered the Scotsman, shaking his head.

  “Hell, I can see him when our bloody Lord and Master makes us do sail drills.”

  “Sail drills? He wouldn’t!”

  “You doubt him?”

  “No captain’s ever made us do sail drills!”

  “Well, from what I’ve heard, doona put it past this one.” The Scotsman sneezed, pulled out an enormous handkerchief, and waved it at Deirdre. Raising his voice, he yelled, “ ’Tis climbin’ higher than that ye’ll have tae be, laddie, if ye want tae reach the maintop!”

  “I’m . . . catchin’ my breath.”

  The foul-smelling one stepped forward. “You ain’t gonna have time to catch yer breath when you ’ave a storm howling up your arse and the bosun’s mates laying the rattans across yer back! Now, climb!”

  Deirdre pressed her face against the ice-encrusted ropes, smelling the pungent aroma of tar and sea salt. She was terrified. One slip, and she would fall into the water so far below. One slip, and she would be dead. Already the chill wind was singing in her ears, and she had a long way to go before she reached what had to be the maintop. Oh, God, she thought, digging her frozen fingers into the shrouds and fighting dizziness. Oh, God, please help me . . . She took a deep breath and pulled herself up a little farther.

  But as she took another step, then another, she realized that the crew’s attention was no longer on her. A boat was coming from shore, a feather of white at its bow, a militaristic figure dressed in blue and white in its stern.

  Every man on the deck below had turned to stare at it.

  “Christ, here comes the bloody captain now!”

  “Quick, look busy!”

  Deirdre flattened herself against the shrouds, shut her eyes, and swallowed the thick lump of dread. Oh, God. Oh, dear God. Now what? Stay here and be seen? Go back down and face the captain?

  Or—her fingers bit into the shrouds as the ship swayed slightly, sickeningly, beneath her—go up?

  She made up her mind, for there was no time to do otherwise. Desperate with terror, Deirdre tilted back her head, scurried skyward, and didn’t stop until she reached the hole that led into the maintop. She hauled herself through it and lay there on the platform, too terrified to look down.

  And so it was that she missed Captain Christian Lord’s arrival.

  ###

  “Blind me, what the deuced hell is wrong with these people, Hendricks?!” Christian snapped, his gray eyes hard with fury as he stared up at the gently curved tumblehome of Bold Marauder’s black-and-gold hull. “This is a king’s ship, damn them, and as such they should bloody well know the meaning of respect!”

  “Aye, sir,” the dark-skinned Jamaican bosun said, a bit ashamed that he’d been away from the frigate when his friend and captain had sent the request for a gig. Had he been aboard, he would never have allowed such a thing to happen. Rico Hendricks, a former slave, had been with Christian since the captain’s days as a midshipman, when the young boy-officer had rescued him from the gallows after Rico’s involvement in a scheme to overthrow his cruel master in Jamaica. Christian had changed little over the years in that respect, Rico thought as he took the squirming, wet dog from his captain’s arms. He might be harder, he might be harsher, he might be a hell of a lot sadder, but he still had a soft spot for the unfortunate and the abused.

  And swift and fitting justice for the kind of pranks the new crew was up to.

  Rico had been ashore, procuring some spare cordage, when he’d found Christian stalking the quay in a towering rage. From the interactions he’d had with the officers and crew of HMS Bold Marauder, Rico knew his captain was going to have his hands full with this bunch. Not only had his request for a gig been blatantly ignored, there was no one at the entry port to welcome him aboard his new command. And for a man who detested any slur on the king’s Navy—be it a sloppy uniform, ungentlemanly behavior on the part of an officer, or any breach in discipline that would weaken the chain that was the Service—the simple denial of a welcoming party was a declaration of war on the part of a crew who had yet to learn just whom they were dealing with.

  It was not a good beginning.

  The boat’s crew, a sloppy, sorry bunch of malcontents who looked like dregs out of Newgate, made several halfhearted attempts to hook onto Bold Marauder's main chains before finally succeeding. Furious, Christian looked up, still expecting the customary shrill of pipes, the smart rectangle of marines presenting arms, the roll of a drum, and the organized fanfare a ship was supposed to give its captain.

  But there was nothing. Not even a soul at the entry port.

  Fuming, he scaled the ship’s side, vowing that such nonsense would not be tolerated under his command. Behind him came Rico, cradling the captain’s new pet in the crook of his arm, grinning to himself, and anticipating spectacular fireworks. At last, Christian reached the entry port and stepped smartly onto the frigate’s deck.

  There was no one there to receive him, just a seaman lounging against the bulwarks and watching him, picking his teeth with the blade of his knife.

  Christian saluted the quarterdeck with tight efficiency, respectfully doffing his hat. Then he slammed it back atop his head and marched past a row of mutinous-looking men who sneered at him and spat on t
he deck in disdain after his passing. Straight up the ladder to the great, double-spoked wheel he went, his eyes blazing.

  A seaman stood at the rail nearby, with a licey-looking mat of black hair and a beard that reached to his waist. He gave Christian an insolent glance. Then he went right on with what he was doing—nonchalantly carving his initials into the gunwale with a knife that could have skewered a cow from one end to another.

  Without breaking stride, Christian reached out, spun him around, and, grabbing the man by the unsightly black growth that sprouted from his jaw, yanked him forward.

  “Your name, sailor!”

  “Arthur Teach,” the seaman sneered . . . sir.”

  “Well, Mr. Teach, fetch your first lieutenant and bring him to me.”

  “Don’t know where he is.”

  “Then find him, you devilish bit of rabble! My patience has already been sorely tested and I warn you, the consequences of its being lost will not be pleasant for you or anyone else!” He yanked Teach forward by the beard until their eyes were inches apart, and snatched the knife from his hand. “Furthermore, I shall abide no defacing of property that doesn’t belong to you, and I insist on a clean-shaven crew. Do I make myself clear?”

  Teach made a rude gesture, tried to turn away—and had his neck nearly broken as the captain, still holding him by the beard, jerked his head around and hacked the evil growth off with one swoop of his own knife. Then he flung both the weapon and the chunk of beard to the deck, his eyes hard as he stared up into those of the stunned Teach.

  "Now do I make myself clear?”

  Teach stood gaping, his mouth opening and closing, his hands slowly coming up to feel his jaw. His face went white with shock, then red with fury, and Christian heard the hushed whispers from the group that was now gathering near the mainmast.

  “Jee-zus, he just hacked off Teach’s beard!”

  “Holy Moses,” another breathed.

  Christian seized the seaman’s sleeve and roughly shoved him forward. “I gave you an order to bring me your first lieutenant. Now, move!”

  Teach staggered away, dazed, his hands cupping his shorn jaw. Out of the corner of his eye Christian saw Hendricks, still holding the little spaniel and watching him carefully, ready as always to step in and assist him should the need arise. But Christian was well able to take care of himself. He watched the men rushing up from below, gathering by the boats in the ship’s waist, talking excitedly and staring at him in shock, disbelief, and sullen, open rebellion.

  But he was in no mood to put up with further nonsense. “Now that I have your undivided attention,” he began, raking them with his gray stare, “allow me to clarify something for you. This is a king’s ship and, as such, is part of the most powerful Navy in the world. She was designed by a colleague of mine, a naval architect who is a master at his trade, and therefore should wear her name with pride, not disgrace. I intend to give her back that pride, and I intend to start here and now. Henceforth, you shall behave as seamen in the service of your king, honoring both this ship and her officers by showing them respect!”

  The crew eyed him balefully. Someone spat. Someone else belched.

  “The next time I come aboard this ship, I expect a proper and ceremonious welcome. You will pipe me aboard and you will stand at attention when I come through the entry port. As it should be a while before I have to do so again, you should have plenty of time in which to practice this simple ritual.” Drawing his sword, he clasped his hands over the hilt and rested the point against the deck, his smile cold and forbidding. “Is that understood?”

  Silence.

  The wind played with his queue, was cold against his cheeks. “After I read myself in, we will weigh anchor and commence our journey to the American colonies, where we will lend our assistance to Vice Admiral Sir Geoffrey Lloyd in easing the mounting tension in Boston.” He paused, feeling their hatred crackling through the air like lightning in an electrical storm. “Do I make myself clear?”

  No one moved.

  “Splendid!” He threw back his shoulders, his bright tone belying his cold, hard eyes. “I see that we have already arrived at an understanding. And I expect that we will understand each other even better by the end of this voyage. Should you demonstrate obedience and loyalty, you will find me a most agreeable commander. In the meantime, I warn you—do not test my patience, for you’ll find it damnably short.”

  The crew, all one hundred and fifty of them, stared at him, their eyes filled with loathing.

  “Any questions?”

  No one moved. The seaman who’d spat did so again.

  Without pause, Christian ordered, “Get a bucket and clean that up.”

  The seaman stared at him.

  Christian locked gazes with him. “I’ll not repeat myself.”

  The offender looked to Teach as though for permission—or, more likely, permission for refusal—and, finding no response from that quarter, walked slowly to one of the buckets lying near the bulwarks.

  “Lively, now!” Christian prompted.

  Every eye was on the seaman as, scowling, he picked up the bucket and swaggered back to his former spot. With a curse, he let it drop to the deck. Dirty water splashed out and made a pool at his feet.

  “You may clean that up, too, sailor. And when you have finished you may give the mop and bucket to Mr. Teach so he can remove that ugly mess of black hair that is even now fouling my decks. This is a fighting ship, not a barbershop!”

  With that he turned smartly on his heel, marched past them, and, ducking his head beneath the deck beams, went below. There should have been a marine stationed outside his cabin door, and it didn’t surprise him to find that there was not.

  Another thing that would have to change, of course.

  Entering the cabin, he slammed the door shut, but not before allowing the little spaniel, who had followed him belowdecks, to slip into his quarters. Christian released his pent-up breath, and willed his anger to abate. It would not do to be in such a black rage when the first lieutenant arrived. He picked up the little dog, who trembled and turned her face against his chest. He dipped his cheek to her fur and gently stroking her fur, went to the stern windows and looked out over the harbor. He was going to have his hands full with this crew. Already they had challenged his authority—but, by God, when HMS Bold Marauder dropped anchor in Boston, Admiral Sir Geoffrey Lloyd would see a ship that the Navy would be proud of.

  But as he stared out over the anchorage, the memories crept under his guard and drove away the troubles of his new command, for the rebellious crew was of little consequence when compared with the real devils that haunted him.

  Tomorrow was the Black Anniversary, five years to the night since she had died.

  He took a deep, shaky breath, hugging the little dog tight as he tried to block the memories, but they came flooding back—just as they sometimes did during his waking hours, just as they always did during his sleeping ones. But such hours weren’t filled with dreams. They were filled with nightmares, nightmares that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Emily. If only he’d stayed at home and been there for her, instead of off commanding ships of war, maybe things would have been different. If only he hadn’t made a career out of the Navy, maybe she wouldn’t have sought the arms of another. If only . . .

  His cheeks were suddenly wet. He buried his face against the spaniel’s soft ears, then raising his head, dragged his arm over his eyes. The proud captain’s insignia on his sleeve blotted the tears, but not the memories. “Dear God, Emily, forgive me my failures. As a friend. As a lover. As—” He swallowed the thick, burning lump that caught suddenly in his throat. “As a husband.”

  Chapter 3

  Deirdre couldn’t stay up here forever.

  Above, there was only a web of spars and lines and a sky smeared with clouds. Mustering her courage, she looked down—and immediately pressed herself back against the mast, her vision reeling and her hand clutching her stomach as she wi
lled herself not to be sick.

  She’d taken only one quick glance, but it had been enough. Far, far below, men scurried like ants on a deck that looked hideously narrow from this far up. Birds flew beneath her, not above. The waves on either side of the ship were tiny with distance, and she was so high up that she could look across, and down at, the rooftops of the buildings that framed the waterfront.

  Shaking convulsively with both cold and fear, Deirdre shut her eyes. Oh, God, she thought, swallowing against the rise of bile in her throat and barely able to move her paralyzed throat muscles. Oh, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. She wiped sweating hands on her trousers. Getting up here had been hard enough. But how was she going to get down?

  And now, someone was climbing skyward. Her heart racing in mounting terror, Deirdre plastered her spine against the mast. A head appeared, capped by a great, oily mop of brown curls that looked as though it had never seen soap. The body that followed it looked—and smelled—no cleaner.

  It was the man she’d heard the others refer to as Skunk. Grunting, he hoisted himself up beside her and frowned as he studied her terrified face. “I know it’s always easier goin’ up than gettin’ down, so I’ve come up to retrieve ye. Best get yer arse down there before the bloody Lord ’n’ Master finds ye slouchin’ off.”

  ‘The Lord an’ Master?” she squeaked. “D’ye mean our captain’s a titled gentleman?”

  “Damned if I know or care. Hell, I forgot, ye’re a bloody landlubber, aren’t ye?” He shook his head. “Lord ’n’ Master’s a name we tars give to the captain of a ship,” he explained. “But it especially fits that bastard below, given ’is surname. Ye’d think ’e’s a bloody nobleman, the way ’e struts around here givin’ orders an’ expectin’ ’em to be obeyed!”