Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  Nobody was smirking anymore. A few men looked down at their feet, visibly ashamed.

  “I do not chastise you for your impertinence and disrespect to me; I chastise you for your impertinence and disrespect for that flag—the flag of Britain. Your blatant disrespect of me is not an insult to me—it is an insult to your country.”

  More men stared down at their toes, their faces reddening with shame. Even Deirdre had turned away from the rail to listen.

  Christian gazed up at the pennant that streamed proudly from Bold Marauder’s jack. “When you salute me, or your flag, or the quarterdeck, you are partaking of a ceremony that is far older than you are, and one which shall persevere long after you are gone. Since you are representatives of your king and country, your conduct as seamen is representative of England. By seeking to anger me, you disgrace not only your country, but your ship and the men you may someday fight beside.

  ‘Tradition, ceremony, discipline, and obedience are the essential glue that holds together a fighting ship. A fighting ship is the essence of a fleet; a fleet, the pride and guardian of a nation. Remove one chink in the armor, one link in the chain, and it is weakened. Do you want to be remembered by those you love and protect back home as being that weak link?”

  No one moved.

  “Do you?”

  They stared at him, while high above, the pennant undulated with majestic grace in the wind.

  “I have nothing more to say.” Turning his back on them, the Lord and Master touched his hat to those proud colors above his head, and, passing his gaping officers, his strangely silent crew, went below.

  But even he did not see the distant puffs of white far off the starboard bows—puffs that might have been clouds, but were no clouds at all.

  ###

  “Lo, Deirdre, I wish you’d come to me earlier,” Delight said, plopping down on her bed as the Irish girl came miserably into the cabin. “I told you before, there are ways of bringing a man to his knees. Surely, whatever damage you’ve done is repairable, no?”

  “I accused him of havin’ faulty weddin’ tackle,” she blurted out.

  “You what?”

  “And then I laughed at him.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Deirdre twisted her hands. “But ye say that all insults can be forgiven, right?”

  “All, I’m afraid, except that one. Lo, Deirdre, you’ve sorely wounded the man’s pride! ’Twill take a lot to make him forgive you.”

  Deirdre put her face in her hands and sank down on her bunk. “Oh, Delight, I didn’t mean it, I was just so angry . . . I woke up that mornin’—I mean, I got in bed with him the night before because he was havin’ that awful, awful nightmare . . . and I felt bad, and just . . . well, I wanted to comfort him, so I got in bed with him. The next mornin’ I woke up and he was gone, and I had all these thoughts that maybe he touched me, that maybe he might’ve stolen me virginity—”

  “You mean, you didn’t know?”

  “How would I? I was sleepin’!”

  Delight threw back her head and laughed. “Lo, child, if he’d taken your maidenhood, I can assure you that you would know it!”

  “Maybe he did,” she replied stubbornly.

  “And besides, you would’ve found your maiden’s blood on the sheets, no?”

  Deirdre looked down, her face beginning to redden.

  “Ah, you are more innocent than even I would’ve thought. What you must do, Deirdre, is win your man back to you. He carries more scars than a battle warrior, no? Scars of the heart, that is. Someone has hurt him deeply, probably this Emily. You have a formidable opponent in this dead wife, but she is dead, and you are not, and our Lord and Master cannot make love to a dead woman, no?”

  “But, Delight, it’s wrong that I have such feelings. He took my brother from me—“

  “No, Deirdre.” The other woman placed her hands on Deirdre’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. “The Royal Navy took your brother from you, not Captain Lord.”

  “Besides,” Deirdre persisted stubbornly, “he’s English.”

  “I know, a stuffy, pompous race, but we cannot dictate the direction of our hearts.”

  “Ye make it sound like I’m in love with him!”

  “No, Deirdre, you make it sound like you’re in love with him.” She smiled patiently. “My advice to you is to get to work immediately on proving to him just how you feel.”

  “How? He hates me, he does, and with good reason after what I said to him.”

  “No, he does not hate you. He merely thinks he loves another. And you have sorely wounded his male pride. But you are a woman, Deirdre. A living, breathing woman. He will not stand a chance against you once you put your mind to it to go after him, no?” She gave a wicked smile, curved an arm around Deirdre’s shoulders, and, guiding her to the door, scooped a gown out of her armoire. “Now, here, put this on, and make sure you tug the bodice down so that the top of your nipples show just above the lace.”

  “Delight!”

  “Don’t be a ninny. ’Tis time you started thawing our handsome Ice Captain! Lord knows I cannot! Now go,” she said, grinning. “We’ll be in Boston in a few days, and the ladies there will all be falling over each other to get their claws into your man. Make an effort to have the advantage over them!”

  Deirdre clutched the gown to her chest, thinking of the captain’s reaction to the tame, by comparison, scarlet one that he had so despised. But at that moment sudden cries drove down from above.

  “Two sail off the starboard bows! And another, fine off the starboard beam! She’s an English ship—and she’s being attacked!”

  Chapter 16

  On deck, the crew of HMS Bold Marauder wasted no time in summoning their commanding officer. Now they stood anxiously beside him, staring into his harsh face for reassurance as he took a spyglass from Midshipman Hartness and trained it on the three ships.

  “What do ye make of it, sir?” Ian murmured, as each distant explosion of gunfire came rolling back to them from over the water.

  The Lord and Master studied the three vessels for a moment longer, then closed the glass with a snap. Handing it back to the midshipman, he turned and walked toward the wheel. “One is a French corvette, Ian.”

  The big Scotsman lifted a brow at the captain’s use of his first name, but Christian continued as if the familiarity were of no consequence. “The second is a sloop, flying no colors at all. And the one they are attacking”—he looked at him gravely—“is an English cutter.”

  “But it’s peacetime, sir!”

  “I know that, Ian.”

  Young Edgar Hartness was pointing at the flags being run up from the English ship. “The cutter is signaling for our assistance, sir!”

  Teach, scowling, had climbed into the shrouds and now called over to the quarterdeck. “The sloop—the one flyin’ no flags—I’ve seen her before, sir. It was on my last voyage to the colonies. She’s a smuggler, mark my words.”

  Christian put the glass to his eye once more. Through it, he saw a fox-featured, laughing rogue with high cheekbones and glossy black curls caught in a length of purple velvet, standing at the tiller of the sloop. Probably its captain, judging by the fine cut of his clothes and his stance of command. The absence of a flag confirmed Teach’s words, and Christian felt a wave of contempt. “Bloody freebooter,” he snapped. “I have no stomach for smugglers, and even less for one who would attack a lone English ship!”

  “What’ll we do, sir?” Ian asked, anxiously.

  “Send the women below to the surgeon, where they will be safe. Then clear for action and beat to quarters.”

  “B-beat to quarters . . . sir?”

  The crew exchanged glances, their faces white with horror. Then they stared at their captain, and saw the cool detachment and resolution in the steady gray eyes.

  “Yes, that is what I said, Mr. MacDuff. Beat to quarters.” He handed the glass back to the midshipman. “We are going to fight.”

  ###

 
; Belowdecks, the two women heard it all: the urgent tattoo of the marine drummer, the shrill of bosuns’ pipes; the feet pounding up the companionways and across the decks; the ominous crashes and bangs and heavy rumblings from above as the frigate’s cannon were moved into place.

  Deirdre, watching Delight roll bandages under Elwin’s instruction, didn’t need the surgeon to tell her what was happening up there. “They’re clearing for action now,” he said bleakly, as though taking comfort from the sound of his own voice. His bony hands shook as he laid out an array of saws, knives, tourniquets, and bandages on the table.

  Deirdre stared at the gleaming instruments, at the bottles of rum that, when the wounded were brought down, would be the only respite from the pain as Elwin dug and cut and—

  Her blood went cold, and she hugged little Tildy close, trying to still the mad, frightened pounding of her heart. Then she put the dog down with her puppies, safely nestled in their box that one of the crewmen had brought down.

  “Is it goin’ to be that bad, Elwin?” she whispered.

  Even Delight paused, her eyes wide and frightened.

  “Might be.” He tied on his surgeon’s apron, then positioned a wooden bucket beneath the table. Moments before, that same table had been where the midshipmen took their meals; now it might be seeing horrors she could only guess at. Above, the swinging deckhead lanterns threw spidery shadows over the operating table, the deck flooring, and Elwin’s tense face.

  “What will happen, d’ye think?”

  “Hopefully, nothing. This here ship’s never been in a fight and I doubt today’ll be any different.” His lips thinned and he swung away, busying himself at tearing bandages from a fresh piece of linen. “But then, she’s never had a captain like this one, either.”

  Cannonfire boomed somewhere outside as Bold Marauder drew closer to the fight.

  She’s never had a captain like this one.

  “Elwin . . . I’m scared.”

  The small man glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. “So am I, girl.” He glanced about the sick bay, assuring himself that he’d done all he could to prepare for what looked like the inevitable. “I have friends up there. This could be bad.”

  Outside, more gunfire boomed out from the other ships, rolling like thunder across the water. Deirdre shut her eyes and wrapped unsteady hands around Granuaile’s cross. But there was no strength to be had there, no comfort.

  Think of Ireland . . . stone fences and misty skies . . . whitewashed cottages and rocky pastures . . . sheep bleating on twilit hills . . .

  Ireland.

  With a start of horror, she realized she’d left her precious canvas bag in the Lord and Master’s cabin. More cannon boomed from somewhere beyond the hull, deep and reverberating and awful. Tildy whined with fear and Deirdre picked her up once more, cuddling her. Beneath Deirdre’s chin, the spaniel buried her face against her chest, shaking in terror.

  Please, God, be with us. Please, Mother Mary, keep us safe. Be with this ship, and . . . and be with our Lord an’ Master. Please, oh heavenly Father, guide him, let the crew follow him, help him to get us out o’ this and keep everyone safe. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, feeling the misty sting of tears behind her lids. And please, dear Jesus, I beg of ye, please, please, please keep him safe.

  Here she was, praying for the safety of a man she had once vowed to kill.

  Dear God.

  From above came another resounding crash, and a chorus of shouts and yells. Bold Marauder was getting close now. Very close.

  “I hope Captain Lord knows what he’s doing,” Delight said nervously.

  “They say he’s been captain of many ships,” Elwin murmured. “That he saved the day at Quiberon. That his last command was a mighty first-rate man-of-war carrying one hundred guns . . . Ever see a hundred-gunner, girls? It’s so big, it’d make this here ship look like a sailboat.”

  They heard a low, menacing rumble as a gun was hauled across the deck, a shout, and then Bold Marauder’s own bellowing voice as one of the nine-pounders in her bow was fired. The deep reverberation sent thunder echoing through the room. Two bottles of rum clinked together, and Delight’s face went pale.

  “No.” Deirdre’s voice was a bare whisper. “I’ve never seen a hundred-gunner, Elwin. After this, I don’t think I ever want to.”

  Another cannon boomed out from above, sounding like a thunderclap striking too close. Deirdre tightened her arms around Tildy, while Delight hastily gathered the three puppies into her arms.

  Oh, dear God, please be with our Lord and Master . . .

  What went through a man’s mind at a time like this? What must he be thinking? Feeling?

  She thought of the hateful words she had last spoken to him. She wished with all her heart she could take them back.

  “I don’t hate him, Elwin.”

  “Eh?”

  “I don’t hate him . . . I said awful things to him, and if something were to happen to him—”

  She couldn’t complete the thought. Couldn’t bear to think of him injured or dead. She bit her lip, and felt the comforting touch of Delight’s hand upon her shoulder.

  Another gun banged out, making the instruments shake and rattle atop the table. “Soon now,” Elwin said nervously, wiping his palms on his apron.

  More pipes shrilled, bare feet stamped across the deck overhead, and then the floor beneath them began to tilt upright, leveling out for a brief moment before the ship angled over onto the other tack. A pair of forceps slid down the table and clattered to the deck flooring. They heard wild shouts from above, then felt the frigate pulling herself up out of the water, the hungry, surging motion as she gathered speed . . .

  Elwin shut his eyes. “The Lord and Master’s sending her in now . . .”

  From above came shouts, rumblings . . . then an expectant silence as the ship tensed for the overwhelming might of its own impending broadside.

  Deirdre clapped her hand over her ears, hearing her heartbeat thundering against her palms. And then the world erupted in unholy sound as Bold Marauder engaged the enemy.

  ###

  “Topmen aloft, and men to the braces! Stand by, Mr. Wenham, and prepare to come about!”

  Pipes shrilled, and men swarmed up the shrouds and out along the frigate’s yards. Moments later, Bold Marauder was nose-up to the wind, fighting her crew and trying desperately to fall off.

  “Now, Mr. Wenham!”

  The deck seemed to drop away beneath them as the man-of-war flung herself onto the other tack and charged down toward the battle.

  “Steady as you go, Mr. Wenham!”

  “Course south by southwest, full and by!”

  Christian stood at the quarterdeck rail, watching the ships drawing closer and closer through the heavy smoke. His mouth was tense and set, his eyes emotionless. Yet he was very conscious of Ian standing beside him and gripping a huge Scottish claymore, his red beard blowing in the wind, his eyes fierce. He was very aware of Rhodes, in place beside Skunk and the larboard battery of guns; he was very aware of the lively response of the frigate, and he was very aware of the nervous crew, their fixated, glassy stares directed ahead toward the fight. Thick, roiling smoke hung above the three ships, broken topmasts and streaming pendants poking up through the acrid gray cloud.

  Christian tugged at the lace of his sleeve. There had been one or two snickers of disdain about his “primped” appearance, but only he and Rico Hendricks, whose black eyes met his from some thirty feet away, knew the real reason he’d donned a fresh shirt and his finest coat, and clipped his best sword to his belt frog—he was a king’s officer, and if he fell today, he would do so with honor.

  If he fell.

  How many times had he sent ships into battle with that same thought running through his mind? How many times had he counted on the strength and loyalty of men who would blindly follow him into hell itself?

  But these men . . .

  Fiercely gripping the quarterdeck rail, he peered acr
oss the double batteries of guns and their anxious, crouching crews. Faces ran with nervous sweat. A few men looked ready to bolt. Only Rhodes seemed calm. Christian met his gaze and gave the briefest of nods, then stared over the lieutenant’s head. Just beyond, Bold Marauder’s plunging jib-boom seemed to swallow up the sea as she charged down toward the three smoke-cloaked ships.

  “The sloop’s makin’ off,” Ian yelled, pointing at the ship that flew no colors.

  Christian took the glass from the midshipman. The little one-masted vessel swam into view, and his eyes narrowed as he trained the glass toward its helm. There was her captain, looking back at him with a hand raised in mocking farewell, and Christian frowned, for somewhere, at some time, he knew he’d seen the man before—

  “Shall we chase him, sir?” Ian asked, pointing at the fleeing ship.

  “No.” Christian snapped the glass closed. “The cutter has requested our assistance, and I’ll not desert her to a damned Frenchman.”

  Gunfire echoed across the water. Christian saw the ornate stern of the French corvette showing dimly through the smoke, her masts poking up through the thick cloud that engulfed her. More guns boomed out in flashes of orange against black, and there was a splitting crash as the small English cutter’s single mast toppled, dragging spars, rigging and screaming men with it down into the sea. A great cry went up from Bold Marauder’s crew at the sight of their fellow countrymen floundering in the waves.

  “By the saints,” Ian gasped, with a desperate glance at his captain.

  “Mr. Hibbert!” Christian caught the midshipman’s scrawny arm, his gaze on the men floundering pitifully in the swells. “Bring up some hammocks from below, make sure they’re tightly rolled, and toss them to those people out there so they have something to hold onto until we can send boats to rescue them.”

  The middie, terrified, just stared at him.