Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  “But isn’t that what a captain’s supposed to do? Give orders?”

  “This here’s Bold Marauder,” Skunk said vehemently. “We don’t take orders from nobody.”

  “Oh,” Deirdre said in a small voice.

  “Anyhow, I came up here to drag ye down. I knows yer scared, and ’is bloody Lordship’ll be topside any moment. Pompous arse—we’re all in for a hard pull with the likes o’ that one in command. Why, I’ll be bettin’ my eyeteeth ’e don’t know a damned thing about sailin’ a ship; prob’ly got where ’e is by who ’e knows, not wot ’e knows, God rot his bloody, pampered hide!”

  Deirdre said nothing, more concerned about the climb back down than she was the captain.

  “Cruel bastard. Ye know what ’e did? Hacked off Teach’s beard, right in front of the whole bloody crew. Hacked it right off! I’m tellin’ ye, ’e’d better watch ’is back now, ’cause Teach’ll be out for him. ’Course, we already got ’im good—ever hear of sabotage?—but he won’t know ’bout that for a bit; besides, it ain’t nothin’ compared to what ol’ Arthur’s planning. Some night the captain’ll wake up with ’is throat slit, and that’s if ’e’s lucky!” Skunk moved easily to the shrouds. “Here, gimme yer hand, lad. That’s it, slide on up behind me, put yer hands around my neck and hold on tight. Not that tight; yer chokin’ me. Watch yer head there. That’s it.”

  Holding her breath, Deirdre shut her eyes and put her face against Skunk’s broad back, wondering how long she could hold out before fainting—either from lack of air or from the strong odors coming from her savior’s unscrubbed body. But they were going down, and that was all that mattered.

  “He think’s he’s gonna impress his admiral by straightenin’ us out, but he’s got a thing or two to learn about us, and we’ve got a thing or two of our own to show the admiral! You just wait till we set sail, hee-hee-hee!” Skunk descended as easily as if he were going down a flight of stairs and Deirdre, opening her eyes the barest slit, breathed a prayer of relief as the faces of those below grew larger and larger. “Aye, you wait. We don’t take no rubbish from no one, mark me well.” He swung himself onto the deck and, kneeling, put her down. “Now, run along, boy, and don’t let the Lord an’ Master see ye, else he’ll flay the skin off yer back and smile while doing it.”

  Deirdre needed no urging. Humiliated, and keenly aware of the smirks, sneers, and taunts of Skunk’s shipmates, she snatched up her canvas bag and fled forward, where she melted safely into the group of seamen gathered in the forecastle. They stared at her as though she had grown a horn in the middle of her forehead. Finally she found a hatch and ducked below. Dear God, the ship wasn’t even out of port yet and she was already in trouble. How on earth would she last the passage to America?

  But she had no choice.

  Brendan was in America, and he was her only hope of finding her brother—and the hated British lieutenant who’d pressed him.

  ###

  “Get the ship under way, please, Mr. MacDuff.”

  Captain Lord stood near Bold Marauder's great, double-spoked wheel, his hands gripping the hilt of his sword and his eyes in shadow beneath the brim of his hat. He emanated authority and discipline, and the Royal Navy couldn’t have boasted a more capable commander.

  The men hated him.

  His hat, turned up in the back, sporting a black cockade, and nearly spanning the width of his shoulders, was edged with gold lace and set smartly atop his head. His blue coat, its gold buttons winking in the sun, was open to show his scrupulously clean white waistcoat and breeches. His neckcloth was smartly tied beneath his chin, his sleeves were frothed with lace, and not a speck of dust marred the black shine of his buckled shoes.

  He looked every inch the naval captain that he was. But only he knew of his trepidation at the thought of his admiral, and his peers, watching from the shore, the signal tower, and the decks of other vessels. Some of them, he knew, had delayed their own departures, obviously unwilling to miss what promised to be quite the spectacle.

  He tightened his jaw, vowing there would be no spectacle.

  Beside him, his first lieutenant stood, anxiously watching the anchor party. Christian glanced up at the snapping masthead pennant and tried to ease the tension between himself and his first officer. “A fine day to put to sea, eh, Mr. MacDuff?”

  The lieutenant looked nervous. “Aye, sir,” he muttered, slinging something over his shoulder.

  Christian turned, frowning. “Pray tell, what is that hellish contraption, Mr. MacDuff?”

  “Bagpipes . . . sir.”

  “And what is their purpose, Lieutenant?”

  “Er, tae make music, sir.”

  “Have they any place in a battle?”

  “No, sir. Not in a sea battle, that is . . .”

  “Very well, then. I’d prefer that you leave them in your cabin when you are in the capacity of your command.”

  “But—”

  “Mr. MacDuff, that is an order.”

  Christian tightened his lips. Bagpipes? By God, what the devil was the Navy coming to? Shaking his head, he glanced at the sailing master. A heavyset man, Tom Wenham had great, jutting ears that seemed to hold up his hat. Several fingers were missing from his left hand, and the tip of his bulbous nose was raw and sunburned. Beside him stood a feral-looking lad dressed in the dirty and stained uniform of a midshipman, a slate in one hand, a pencil in the other.

  Christian put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ian MacDuff eyeing him nervously and stroking his beard, as though fearful that it would meet the same fate as Teach’s. MacDuff had damned good reason to be nervous. As the frigate’s second-in-command, he should be setting an example, not provoking more rebelliousness. Facial hair would not be tolerated—and neither would that outlandish Scottish garb.

  Sudden anger inflamed Christian. By God, this was the Navy, not a damned circus show!

  But he would wait until they were at sea before addressing the matter of Ian’s beard—as well as Hibbert’s filthy uniform and a score of other outrages he’d already noted in his log. Weighing anchor and getting the ship under way was a delicate enough operation without further complicating matters by alienating his first officer. And as for the crew itself . . . they hated him now, yes, and they’d probably hate him even more once they got away from England and the ocean rolled beneath their keel.

  Not that it bothered him, for he was not a man who courted friendship or popularity. For now, all that mattered was getting Bold Marauder safely away from Portsmouth without mishap in sight of his acquaintances, his peers, or—God forbid—his admiral.

  His apprehension built. The wind was blowing fresh, and it wouldn’t take much to land Bold Marauder in trouble—literally. He laced his fingers together behind his back and took a deep breath. Forward, the anchor was nearly hove short, the men swearing and straining at the capstan, the great cable thundering and clanking through the hawseholes. A bosun’s mate stood astride the bowsprit, his greasy pigtail whipping in the cold wind, one hand wrapped around a stay, the other circling in indication of how much cable was left to bring in.

  Suddenly the man raised his hand, and Rhodes, who’d been supervising the capstan party, yelled, “Anchor’s hove short, sir!”

  Christian gave the barest perceptible nod. He glanced quickly at the signal tower on the shore, where flags fluttered in the wind, giving him permission to proceed.

  Yes, they are all watching. The whole damned harbor . . .

  “Bring it in,” he commanded.

  But something was wrong. He knew it even as the men at the capstan heaved, swore, and glanced in mock confusion at each other. He knew it even as he heard several amused guffaws. And he knew it even as he saw several seamen exchange glances and turn away to hide their sudden smirks.

  Above, the wind blew impatiently, and out of the corner of his eye Christian saw the flash of sunlight against a telescope from shore.

  “Is there a pro
blem, Mr. Rhodes?”

  Rhodes turned, a helpless look on his face that was directly at odds with the glint in his eye. “Uh, the anchor seems to be fouled, sir.”

  Bloody hell. Christian closed his eyes and mentally went through a vocabulary of much bluer naval language. “Are you certain, Mr. Rhodes?”

  The lieutenant was peering over the bulwarks. Christian heard the crew snickering, and his apprehension turned to raw fury.

  Sabotage.

  Rhodes straightened up, feigning innocence. “Aye, sir,” he called. “Seems to be caught on something.”

  Silence, with only the wind and the lap of the waves. Christian thought of those who were watching: Sir Elliott . . . the men in the signal tower . . . the hundreds of spectators, as well as other captains, officers, and seamen in and around Portsmouth Harbor and Spithead—

  “Your orders, sir?” Rhodes called, with a seemingly benign smile.

  The embarrassment of losing an anchor couldn’t have come at a worse time, and there were only two things he could do: either delay his departure and try to retrieve it, or cut the cable and get the hell out of there.

  He thought of all the eyes watching from shore, from the other ships, and wasted no time on a decision.

  “Hands aloft to loose tops’ls.”

  From below the quarterdeck rail, he heard fierce whispers that he did his best to ignore and vowed not to forget.

  “This’ll really make him look bad!”

  “Aye, ’twill bring his bloody Lordship down a tuppence or two!”

  His order was repeated through speaking trumpets. Men ran to the braces while others scrambled up the ratlines and out along the yards. Sail spilled down, rolling in the wind with a noise like thunder. The wind was blowing strong, and he knew he would have only a few short moments to get the sails properly set before the frigate was swept dangerously close to shore and the other anchored vessels. He would have to move fast, for once the cable was cut—

  His heart began to hammer in his throat. From shore, another telescope glinted in the sunlight. Another, from an admiral’s flagship . . .

  He saw Rico, waiting for his next order; he felt the frigate trembling deep in her bones. He took a deep, steadying breath, stared nervously at the land, and snapped, “Prepare to lose the anchor.”

  The cable was cut. Like a bird trying out its wings for the first time, the frigate reeled drunkenly, her canvas flapping, her yards jumping, the men aloft yelling with alarm, and some with fear, as their precarious footholds jerked and bucked beneath them.

  “Look alive on those braces!”

  On deck, swearing, shouting men were laid nearly on their backs as they heaved and hauled at the braces. From above came a yell of alarm as a topman slipped on a foot-rope and nearly fell.

  Christian stared at the land drawing closer and closer. “Get those bloody tops’ls set!” he roared.

  The shore was now so close that he could see the people lining the docks and watching the magnificent sight of a king’s ship getting under way; it was so close that he could hear the jeering hoots of ridicule from a moored sloop of war whose crew knew that the sight wasn’t the least bit magnificent; it was so close that he could see the windows of an inn, and the glint of sun off another telescope. Another . . .

  “Loose fore and main courses!”

  Ian had been picking at a callus on his knuckle. “Huh?”

  "Loose fore and main courses!”

  “Oh. Aye. Uh, aye, sir.”

  But just then the men, leaning on their heels and nearly horizontal to the deck as they hauled on the braces, sent up a great cry of distress and tumbled onto their backs.

  A line had parted.

  Another.

  And then more cries of dismay as a brace gave way with a sound like a pistol shot.

  Great God above!

  Above, canvas flapped in out-of-control fury. Lines snapped to and fro like the tails of a whip, yards jerked and quivered—and HMS Bold Marauder, out of control, headed directly for shore.

  “Assume the deck, Mr. MacDuff!” Christian yelled, already running down the quarterdeck stairs and racing forward to take control of the confusion.

  But it was too late. Ian, standing dumbly beside the wheel, suddenly realized the magnitude of responsibility his commanding officer had just shoved on him. “Christ, laddies, do something! Where’s Skunk? Skunk! Jesus, don’t just stand there—”

  Skunk stood just below the quarterdeck railing, grinning and idly picking at a tooth. “Piss off, Ian. Just because ye’ve been given a bit o’ power, ye don’t have to take it out on the rest of us!”

  “Yeah, leave us out of it!” Teach yelled.

  "Move!” Ian roared, seeing the shoreline coming closer and closer. “Saints alive—Christ, Wenham, there’s a moored boat coming up off the larboard bows—”

  “What boat?”

  Ian grabbed the wheel and spun it hard, but with the sails flapping helplessly, it was no use. And the wheel—

  “The steering’s gone!” he cried, curling his hands into claws and raking at his hair. “The bluidy steering’s gone!”

  The little boat cringed beneath the shadow of the oncoming frigate, and Ian clapped his hands to his ears as it was helplessly smashed beneath the great bows.

  “You tampered with the rudder!” Ian yelled, going for Wenham’s throat, and the sailing master ducked as the Scot’s huge fist swung. Ian didn’t see his captain desperately shoving men aside as he fought his way back to the quarterdeck. He didn’t see the crew tossing down what lines hadn’t been tampered with and surging aft to view the fight.

  And he didn’t see old Admiral Burns’s proud flagship looming up off the leeward bows, the admiral himself standing on the quarterdeck in horrified shock—

  Sighing, the frigate sank her bowsprit into the flagship’s rigging, plunged through spars and lines, and then slammed hard against the massive hull with a stunning, grinding crash. The impact knocked everyone off his feet and sent seamen flying against pinrails, railings, and the deck itself.

  Lieutenant Ian MacDuff’s Scottish temper exploded and he came up swinging.

  Skunk caught the first blow, dealt the second. Teach, seeing a good fight and furious at being left out, dove into the melee. Fists flew. Grunts and groans and curses split the air. And the new, rawboned little recruit raced up from below, saw her chance of escape from what she’d long since decided was the wrong ship to take to the colonies, and made a wild dive toward the rail.

  “Get back here, ye miserable little worm! ’Tis all your fault we’re gonna get in trouble!”

  “His bloody Lordship’s gonna have poor Ian’s hide!”

  Ian smashed a fist into Teach’s jaw, raised his head, and bawled, “Damn right he is, and I’ll nae suffer his temper alone, ye miserable pack of lazy, good-fer-nothing bastards!”

  “Hell, don’t take it out on us—it’s that little pisser’s fault!” howled the rat-faced midshipman, pointing at Deirdre.

  “My fault?”

  They came at her in a pack.

  “No!”

  Deirdre bolted for the railing, tripped over a coiled pile of rope, and went down hard, scraping her palms and smashing her chin against the deck. Her precious bag of Irish mementos skidded away. Stars exploded across her eyes. Her tooth cut into her lip. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth and desperately she scrambled to regain her feet, only to fall once more as a booted foot caught her behind the knees. A hand yanked her to her feet; another shoved her violently toward the shrouds. “Get yourself up that mast and start cutting us loose—now!” shouted Hibbert, the rat-faced little midshipman.

  There was no way in Satan’s hell she was going up that mast again—nor, since she was leaving, any reason to. “Get up it yourself, ye poxy, bleedin’ bully!”

  His fist crashed into her cheek. Dizzily, she swung back, lashing blindly out and managing to catch him in the mouth. Pain shot up her hand and mixed with blood—her blood, Hibbert’s blood—an
d he came at her again, a stream of crimson pouring from his lip. Grabbing her wrist, he twisted it savagely behind her back. “He hit an officer!” the boy raged, his eyes wild. “He hit me!”

  “Can’t let such a crime go unpunished!”

  “Aye, punish him! Lash him to the mast and give him Moses’ Law!”

  “Lash him good, I say!” Someone threw the middie a whip. “Strip the skin from ’is back!”

  “Give ’im two dozen!”

  “Give him three!”

  Deirdre kicked and fought and twisted as they seized her wrists and tied them to the mast. Her teeth sank into someone’s arm and she tasted grime and sweat. A hand cuffed her sharply across the jaw. Behind her, the men were in a frenzy, desperate for a scapegoat so they wouldn’t get the punishment their captain and his big Jamaican henchman would surely have in store for them.

  “Four-dozen lashes, Hibbert!”

  “Make it five!”

  It became a chant. “Five! Five! Five!”

  “No!” Her desperate cries rang in her ears as someone tore the jacket from her back and Hibbert grabbed up the cat-o’-nine-tails.

  “No-o-o-ooo!” She writhed in terror, the rope biting into her wrists as she waited for the horrible, agonizing fire to slam between her shoulders and drive the breath from her lungs. Hibbert, his eyes maniacal, drew back his arm, and she screamed as someone slashed her shirt away and cold, bitter wind swept in against her bare back—

  Hibbert’s arm froze above his head.

  “Holy God in heaven,” someone breathed. “It’s a woman.”

  Hibbert dropped the whip. A hush fell over the ship. Deirdre collapsed and hung by her wrists, breathing hard. Then, through the haze of fear she saw the captain striding toward her, his jaw tight and angry, his face obscured by the shadow of his hat. This was the man they hated and feared. This was the man whose word was God’s aboard the vessel. This was the man who controlled their lives, their actions, their destiny.

  This was the Lord and Master.