by Sea Fires
Jack cupped Miranda’s shoulders, gently turning her around. “Now, go below and stay in my cabin... no matter what happens. Do you understand?”
Of course she understood. Did the captain think she couldn’t comprehend a simple order? An infuriating one, perhaps, but a simple one nonetheless. With a quick nod, Miranda descended the ladder onto the main deck. She dodged the men who all but ignored her passage and ducked through the hatch.
Jack watched her disappear down the ladder, then turned his mind back to the ship blocking the entrance of the creek.
“Ev’ry man’s at battle stations, Cap’n. And we kept the gunwales closed like ye said.” Phin stuck his grizzly head above the quarterdeck floor. “What ye got in mind to do? Fer sure they seen us by now.”
“I imagine they have.” The Sea Hawk had just cleared the last bend in the creek and could now see—and be seen by—the ship that lay less than a league to the south.
“What ye think they’re doing there?” Phin screwed up his face and studied the enemy vessel.
“Exactly what it looks like they’re doing. They’re trying to keep us from sailing out into the ocean.” The ship was anchored at an angle, her great guns, black as pitch, peeping through opened gunwales. It stood as large and formidable as a fortress guarding a harbor.
“But how’d they find out ‘bout this place? We ain’t never had a speck a problems here before.”
“I don’t know.” Jack brushed the question aside. This was not the time to worry about it.
Later he would ponder the hows and whys. Now he needed to get the Sea Hawk out of this trap. “Furl sail and drop anchor. I want it to appear as if we stopped the moment we spotted them.”
“Cap’n, we ain’t got much time left till the tide’s gone. And ye know what will happen to us then.”
“Aye.” They’d be grounded and easy prey. Vulnerable to whatever the Spanish had in mind.
Vulnerable like Port Royal and its Scottish settlers had been those many years ago. Jack unrolled a chart and checked some figures. “We still have some time.” But not much. Jack lifted his head, face into the breeze, and smiled. As the shadows lengthened the wind picked up, a fair, freshening blow from the north. It followed the flow of the creek and would carry a ship under full canvas skimming swiftly toward the open sea.
“Put every tar who’s not manning a gun in the top masts. When I give the signal, I want sails spilling down from the spars. And I want it fast.”
“Ye thinkin’ to run through ‘em?”
“Aye. That’s just what I’m thinking.” Jack peered through his glass. “She’s sitting there so cocksure of herself, thinking we’re trapped.” Lowering the telescope, Jack tapped it against his open palm. “It will be a tight squeeze getting by her.”
“And a damn bloody one. What ye figure, Cap’n? Twenty guns?”
“Aye.” Jack blew air through his teeth. “Near as I can tell. But hopefully we’ll be by her before she can do us much harm.” Jack looked away and shut his eyes. He wasn’t much for praying— hadn’t been since that afternoon the Spanish wiped out his family—but he said a short one now. And if it came out more demand than supplication, he hoped God wouldn’t hold it against him.
Shadows from the tall pines on shore fell across the deck as the sun shifted lower behind the spit of wooded land separating the Sea Hawk from the sea. Crickets and locusts started their raucous noises, but aboard the pirate ship there was nary a sound. All were at their posts, ignoring the cramping of muscles and the tension that seemed to shroud the vessel.
And all awaited the order; that would send them scurrying to put the Sea Hawk in motion, toward the formidable Spanish blockader. Within range of her murderous guns. To a man, they knew what lay ahead was a calculated risk. And though their way of life might indicate otherwise, risks were not something pirates sought. Sure things were more their style. But there was no sure way out of this mess, and they trusted their captain to make the best of a bad situation.
Jack trusted fate and perhaps some divine intervention, and the luck that seemed to ride on his shoulder. When the breeze stiffened as much as he thought it might, and the first filming of dusk settled over the lowering tide on the creek, Jack turned toward Phin.
Hopefully the Sea Hawk’s inactivity had lulled the Spanish ship into believing she planned nothing for this night. Immobilizing fear was so easy to accept in an enemy, partly because it so easily took hold of men. But it hadn’t seized Jack or the Sea Hawk’s crew.
“Now, Phin!” Jack gave the order in a hushed voice, and Phin raised his arm in the prearranged signal. The sign was passed from one pirate to the next, till all knew the time was at hand.
Then in unison the fore and aft sails whipped down the rigging, rattling out through the wooden blocks. At the same moment, King, using a boarding axe, severed the cable, leaving the anchor near buried in the bottom mud and freeing the pirate ship.
The Sea Hawk yawed and groaned, then lurched forward as the great sheets caught the wind. They were under way, skimming toward the Spanish ship.
Jack squinted through the spyglass, trying to make out through the gathering dusk the enemy’s reaction to the sudden movement of the Sea Hawk. They didn’t seem to realize at first what the pirates were about, but soon, Jack noticed the frenzied motion of the small figures as they readied the guns.
Tongues of orange spewed from the muzzles well before the Sea Hawk was in range, but Jack assumed the Spanish captain was showing but a sampling of things to come.
“Keep your course steady, Phin.” Jack lowered the glass and gave his quartermaster a hard stare. “Whatever happens, keep us heading for the alley between the Spaniard and the shore.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Phin’s gnarled fingers gripped the wheel. “And I’m assumin’ the wash is deep enough.”
“You’re assuming right,” Jack answered, hoping against hope it was. He yanked from his waistband the pistol that matched the one he’d given Miranda.
They were fast closing range. The ever-narrowing space of brackish water that separated the two vessels swelled with splashing cannon balls and shot. Sprinkles of water, turned diamondlike by the last rays of the setting sun, sprayed over the Sea Hawk’s hull.
Jack waited until a thundering blast sent a ball falling mere feet in front of his ship. Then, with one last warning to Phin to keep her steady, Jack bounded down to the main deck. “Fire!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Fire at will!”
The resulting roar was deafening. Jack spread his legs, steadying himself against the sudden jolt of the ship. Smoke swirled and billowed around the men, obscuring them from sight. But Jack could hear them, panting for breath, scurrying to swab out the muzzle and reload.
His eyes blurry from saltpeter and sulphur, Jack peered through the rising smoke to the strip of water between the Spanish vessel and the waving green swamp grass of shore. The channel was deep there, cut in the sand by hundreds of years of tides, but it was narrow, thanks to the length of the blockader.
And there was hell to pay getting to that passageway to the sea.
They were well in range now. The moment after Jack realized that, he felt the Sea Hawk lurch as the first shot exploded on deck. Grabbing a bucket, Jack rushed toward the spot and along with a tar managed to smother the flames. But there was no respite as another, then another volley hit the pirate ship.
“Fight! Fight!” Jack roared encouragement to his men as they sailed through the rain of shells and fire. His throat burned, and his voice came out as a rasp; but he continued to dive from one gun to the next, sponging here, touching the spark to powder there.
They didn’t bother to aim. The Sea Hawk and the Spanish ship were nearly side by side now, shooting point-blank at each other. Easily within small arms range.
Jack emptied his pistol but didn’t take the time to reload. Sharpshooters in the shrouds were keeping the Spaniards busy, giving Jack’s men a chance they wouldn’t have otherwise.
They were s
lipping through, had survived the worst of the frontal attack. Though the Sea Hawk continued to fire, the stable Spanish ship could do almost nothing. She was without stern ports to shoot cannon through. It was like the eye of a hurricane, this momentary reprieve from the deadly fire. Jack allowed himself to think that they might, perhaps make it, when the Sea Hawk listed violently to stern. Jack’s first reaction was that they were sinking. But then he realized the ship had hit the shore.
“Phin! Phin!” Jack hurdled over one of his men who lay bleeding and screaming in pain near the main mast, and raced across the slippery deck toward the ladder. Yanking himself up, Jack cursed violently when he saw his quartermaster draped over the wheel.
But there was no time for sentimentality. Untangling Phin, Jack slid him to the deck and put all his strength into straightening the wheel.
Jack’s muscles, soot-covered and slick with sweat, strained as he worked. The ship groaned and complained, skimming along the mud-lined shore. Then, with one giant, wind-powered lurch, she broke free. Settling back into the deeper channel, the Sea Hawk righted and surged toward the sea.
Within seconds the Sea Hawk skimmed into range of the Spaniard’s leeward guns. But the angle was not as deadly, and by this time the pirates had maneuverability and the rush of water to the open sea on their side.
A rousing cheer echoed through the rigging. They’d made it! They’d squirmed out of the trap and now raced into the white-tipped waves off the coast. Jack cast a glance behind to where the crew on the Spanish vessel scurried about unfurling the sails. They still posed a threat, but Jack didn’t think a very serious one. By the time they raised anchor and maneuvered the ship out of the creek, night would blanket the sea. By morn, Jack intended to be far from here.
As soon as the pirates quieted, Jack yelled down to the main deck for someone to come help Phin. The quartermaster rolled to his side, moaning, and Jack saw blood puddling beneath his body. “Someone get up here. Now!” Jack needed to keep his hands and mind on steering the ship, but if someone didn’t get here quickly, he’d—
“What is it, Captain? Are you hurt?” Miranda pulled herself up the ladder, gasping when she saw Phin. Gathering up, her skirts, she rushed over to where he lay. “What happened to him?” Carefully she turned the older man over.
“He’s been hit. By splintering wood, I think. What the hell are you doing up here?”
Miranda ignored the last as she settled the old man on his back. “Yes, here it is,” she said, gently pulling aside the torn and bloody shirt. “Phin, can you hear me?”
Phin’s eyes slitted open, but the dark irises were clouded with pain. “Your ladyship,” he murmured before biting his bottom lip.
“I know it hurts, Phin. But you’ll be all right. I promise.” Miranda lifted her skirt and tore off a strip of petticoat, hoping this was a promise she could keep. There were several jagged slivers of wood, spar she assumed, protruding from Phin’s shoulder and chest. She couldn’t tell how deeply they pierced into the flesh, but as she cautiously tugged on one, fresh blood spurted out.
Mopping at the wound with her petticoat, Miranda found a better handhold on the splinter and pulled harder. Phin moaned before losing consciousness. With a final yank, Miranda removed the wood, and quickly plugged the gaping hole with more ruffled linen.
“God’s blood, what’s going on?” Jack strained to see around Miranda’s slim back to what she was doing to his friend. “Where’s the surgeon?”
“Dead, I’m afraid.” Miranda glanced over her shoulder. The captain appeared truly shaken by her remark. Miranda realized she should have told him more gently. But she really didn’t have time.
“Don’t tell me you know doctoring, too?” The woman seemed to have an unlimited font of knowledge.
“Not exactly.” Miranda gripped another shard of wood. “But I do know something of anatomy.”
By the time she’d removed all the wood and wrapped Phin in more petticoat, King had arrived on the quarterdeck. He took the wheel as he gave the rundown of losses to Jack. Two dead, including, as Miranda said, the surgeon. Actually he hadn’t been a physician at all, but a carpenter. But he was the closest thing the Sea Hawk had to a man of medicine. Little it mattered since he was usually only called on to saw off shattered arms and legs. And he’d been a good sailor, as had Charley Stone, the other casualty.
Jack supposed with the odds against them as they were, losing only two men was the best he could expect. But he still didn’t feel good about it. His crew’s casualties only added to the hatred for the Spanish that consumed him.
And the number of dead could increase. Phin lay on the sun-bleached deck, as white as the canvas that billowed overhead. Jack swallowed. “Is he... ?”
“I think he’ll be all right.” Miranda wiped bloody hands down her gown. It was then that Jack noticed her... really noticed her.
“My God! Are you hurt?”
“No, why?”
“You’re covered with blood and—”
“Oh.” Miranda stared down at her dress. “It’s not mine. I’ve been helping out. Several other men are wounded.”
“You mean Phin isn’t the first you’ve worked on?” Jack’s voice was deceptively calm.
“Why, no. I’ve bandaged up Ed Snively and—”
“But we’ve only been out of the Spaniards’ range a few minutes. Each word grew louder as realization hit Jack. “Do you mean to tell me you were on deck when fighting was going on?”
Miranda simply stood, her eyes dark and as large as saucers, her mouth shut. But it was admission enough for Jack.
“God’s blood, woman!” He raked his hands back through his tangle of golden hair. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”
“The same as happened to Charley Stone, I imagine,” she answered quietly.
“You’re damn right the same that happened to him, or to Doc, or Ed.”
“Or Phin,” Miranda continued for him. “Don’t you think we should carry him below deck?”
“Hell, yes, I think we should carry him below deck.” Jack stood, hands on hips, and glared at Miranda. Admittedly he hadn’t thought of her during the battle—there hadn’t been time. But just before the fighting when his mind had slipped to thoughts of her, he’d imagined her relatively safe in his cabin.
Certainly not on the blood-slick deck exposing herself to the shelling. Thinking of it now, he could barely keep from throttling her.
“Uh, Captain, sir. I can take Phin below if you’d rather.”
Jack took a deep breath and looked back at King. “Nay, I’ll do it. You—” Jack pointed a long finger at Miranda— “come with me.”
“I think I should see to the other men first.” She moved across the quarterdeck. “Some of them might need—”
“Miranda!”
Barely restrained anger in his voice made Miranda pause on the top rung of the ladder. She flung back her hair and took a deep breath. “I shall come below soon. After I’ve seen to the other men.” With that, she disappeared over the quarterdeck’s side.
And Jack continued to stare, open-mouthed, at the spot where she’d been.
“She’s a mind of her own, that one.”
Jack clamped his mouth shut and turned toward King. “That woman needs to be taught a lesson in following orders.”
King shrugged, the muscles rippling under his ebony skin. “One of you does.”
“And just what the hell do you mean by that?”
“Nothing.” King’s grin gleamed white against his skin. “It’s just, I think you feared for her safety and that made you give orders she wasn’t likely to follow.”
“You’re damn right I feared for her safety.” Jack bent over and carefully scooped Phin in his arms. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t?” he mumbled as he headed down the ladder.
Set up in the afterhold, the surgery consisted of planks placed on smooth casks. There was one man, a boy actually, sitting on the edge of the board, his skinny legs dangling
over the side. When Jack entered the area carrying Phin, Miranda was already there. She was trying to get the boy to lie back down.
“This will be a lot easier, Nat, if you just let me see what the problem is.”
“Ain’t got no problem, and I sure as hell don’t want ye lookin’ at me.”
“Nat!” Jack settled Phin into a berth that was made up for the wounded and rounded on the boy. “Watch your language in front of a lady.”
“Aw, Cap’n. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Perhaps not, however... What are you smiling about?”
Miranda tried to sober her expression. How could the pirate captain, of all people, find fault with anyone’s language. He nearly singed her ears whenever they were together. But she wasn’t going to point that out, especially not in front of the boy.
“I’m not smiling about anything. I simply wish to take a look at this lad’s wound.”
Hell if he didn’t know a smile when he saw one... especially one of Miranda Chadwick’s, but Jack decided not to pursue it. “Show her your wound, Nat.” After giving the order, Jack strode over to where Phin was struggling to sit up. “How are you feeling, you old sea dog?” Jack tried not to think about how panicked he’d felt when he saw Phin lying bloodied and pale on the deck.
“How in the hell ye think I’m feelin’? Damn Spaniards.”
“Well, we got by them.” Jack twisted around when the low rumble of voices near the makeshift table grew louder. “What’s going on over there?” Nat was on his feet, blood running down his leg, and Miranda had hold of his arm. Something that Nat was obviously trying to change. He tried jerking his elbow, but the woman held firm.
“What in the hell is it?” Jack clamped his hand over Nat’s shoulder.
“I don’t want her lookin’ at me, Cap’n,” the boy pleaded, his narrow blue eyes looking up at Jack imploringly.
“But he’s wounded and bleeding,” Miranda countered logically.
Jack studied each in turn, then let out his breath. “She’s right, Nat. Now just let her—”