The skull and crossbones was lowered, a large, vivid French flag raised to the top of the highest mast where it fluttered in glory. The crew scurried about making last-minute preparations, priming the cannons, piling balls in place, readying the long tapers for lighting, checking knives, pistols and cutlasses. The black speck on the horizon gradually took shape, a tiny toy boat now, bobbing on the water like a cork in the distance, growing larger as The Sea Lyon drew nearer, skimming lightly over the waves toward its victim.
"All right, men!" Tremayne shouted.
Grappling hooks and planks were brought out, placed within easy reach. The ropes dangling from the masts were checked. Those pirates not in French uniform crouched out of sight, four huddling around each cannon on the leeward side, the others hiding behind boxes and barrels and hatches. One uniformed man took over the wheel from Draper. Another manned the tiller. The other ten idled about the deck in strategic spots, highly visible. Tremayne and Red Nick joined us on the poop deck. The French vessel loomed larger now, and I could see the sailors moving about on deck, brawny lads in tight white breeches and blue and white striped jerseys. A man in a handsome uniform with shiny epaulettes was holding a telescope to his eye, observing us closely.
"Heavily armed," Tremayne observed. "Heavily manned, too. Guess that's to be expected, considerin' what they're carryin'."
"I'd say they outnumber us two to one," Red Nick replied.
"Ain't no problem, Captain."
"I shouldn't think so."
I tried to control the nervous tremors inside as I watched the French ship loom larger still. Red Nick looked at me with indifferent blue eyes.
"You don't like this, do you?" he inquired.
"They—they're all doomed," I said.
"Quite so," he agreed.
"They haven't a chance."
"Not a chance. Smile," he said.
"I can't."
"Smile!" he ordered. "Wave!"
The breach between the two ships narrowed. The French vessel was large and solid, built to withstand just such an attack as the one Lyon planned. I could see the men on deck clearly now. They seemed terribly young, their faces bright and merry, and all of them were doomed. All of them were going to die, were going to be horribly butchered. I could feel myself trembling. The man with the telescope wore a suspicious expression. He gave an order and men raced to man the cannon, ready to fire if need be. I couldn't stand it. I had to go below. I started to turn. Nicholas Lyon took hold of my wrist and gave it a twist that sent needles of pain all the way up to my shoulder.
"Smile," he repeated,
I forced a smile on my lips. I raised my free hand and waved. Michael Tremayne was standing very close to Em, his arm behind her, a pistol jammed between her shoulder blades. Em's eyes were damp, but she was smiling, too. The Sea Lyon sailed nearer its prey, the sails ballooning majestically in the wind, the French flag fluttering high overhead. The pirates in uniform began to shout and wave now, greeting their supposed compatriots with great zest. Nicholas Lyon released my wrist and removed his plumed hat and executed an elegant bow to the captain across the water.
"Bonjour!" he shouted.
The captain returned the greeting, still suspicious.
"We're a passenger ship," Red Nick called, in perfect French. "A storm blew us slightly off course three days ago. We're relieved to see you. We're short on water. Have you any spare barrels?"
"We can give you three or four," the captain shouted.
"A million thanks!"
Suspicions gone now, the captain spoke to his men. They moved away from the cannons. Several of them began to smile and wave. The ships drew closer, moving slowly toward each other. Tremayne was grinning like a little boy who had just been given an armload of brightly wrapped presents. A grin played on Red Nick's lips, too, but his blue eyes were lethal. He waited until the other ship was no more than fifty yards away, then raised his arm and lowered it in a sharp, abrupt signal. The cannons boomed. Em screamed.
The Sea Lyon rocked so violently that I was almost thrown off my feet.
Four large, gaping holes appeared in the hull of the French vessel, and two of the masts came tumbling down like felled timber, the sails ripping, the masts crashing onto the deck, one of them landing on the captain, knocking him down and crushing him horribly. The pirates swarmed over the deck, yelling lustily, tossing the grappling hooks across the water, pulling the French ship alongside The Sea Lyon. Red Nick threw his hat aside, peeled off his bronze satin coat, and seized the cutlass Tremayne held ready. The two of them leaped eagerly into the fray as planks were placed across the railings of the two ships and the pirates raced across them, others scrambling up the rigging and grabbing hold of ropes to swing through the air and land on the other deck with barbaric cries.
The huge iron balls tearing into the hull and felling the masts had taken the French sailors by complete surprise, and the ship had pitched so violently that many of them had been thrown sprawling onto the deck, arms and legs akimbo. Red Nick and his men fell upon them with vicious energy, cutting and slashing and firing their pistols, yelling like demons from the depths of hell. It took the Frenchmen several moments to recover from the shock. During those brief moments, their ranks were depleted, the deck already running with bright red blood.
"Jesus!" Em cried. "Oh, sweet Jesus!"
Her green-brown eyes were filled with anger and horror, and with tears as well. She dropped her parasol and clung to me, and neither of us could look away. We were paralyzed, held captive by the multiple scenes of carnage taking place before our eyes, a noisy, swirling, constantly shifting kaleidoscope of bloodshed. I saw a blond French youth get to his feet and seize his pistol, saw Draper drive a sword through him before he could fire. The youth's eyes grew wider and wider, his lips moving in a silent prayer as blood spurted and he sank to his knees.
Another sailor with wavy brown hair struggled furiously as two laughing pirates seized him and lifted him in the air and hurled him over the railing, his body falling to the waves below, followed by another, another, yet another. Directly across from where Em and I stood four French sailors were fighting with Draper and two other men, fighting with super-human strength and determination as the three pirates closed in, cutlasses flashing. One of the sailors managed to fire his pistol, and the pirate beside Draper grabbed his stomach and crashed to the deck. Draper knocked the pistol out of the sailor's hand and, too close to thrust with his blade, gave the lad a fierce shove that sent him crashing against the railing with such force that the wood splintered and he went spinning into the water. Draper and the remaining pirate cut down the other three sailors, heaved them overboard, and rushed to find more victims.
It was horrible, horrible, so horrible I could hardly believe it was happening. It was something out of hell, demons yelling, blood gushing, flames leaping as one of the sails caught fire, and I watched with stunned disbelief, my senses numb with shock. The burning mast and sail crackled, toppled, tailing into the water, a sheet of flame covering everything like a vivid orange banner for a moment before disappearing into the waves. I desperately wanted to hide my eyes, to go below, to shut off the horror, but I was rooted to the spot, compelled to watch, seeing everything through a haze of disbelief. Em's face was white. Her shoulders were trembling. I wrapped my arms around her, and she buried her head in my shoulder, sobbing quietly, the strong, courageous girl momentarily reduced to a frightened child.
Tremayne was having the time of his life, leaping around with great agility, wielding his knife with deadly precision, his sky-blue satin outfit splattered with blood. Somehow or other he had managed to keep his hat on, and the plumes waved wildly. He grabbed a sailor by the hair, yanked his head back, sliced his throat, and then shoved him aside to grab another man and drive his knife deep into the man's chest. He was laughing, his dark eyes alight with boyish glee as he stabbed and slashed, enjoying the slaughter as another man might enjoy a rousing physical sport. Heaving yet another victim aside,
he leaped nimbly over a fallen mast to grab another sailor from behind, shoving his knife into the sailor's back and twisting it viciously, his lips spreading in a wide, delighted grin as the lad screamed in agony and shuddered and died.
Red Nick fought coolly, calmly, his face expressionless as he used his cutlass with dazzling skill. While most of his men jabbed and slashed and jumped about in a frenzy of bloodlust, Lyon fenced like an aristocrat, each thrust and parry sharp and clean, arm and cutlass moving as one in graceful, deadly swirls, the sleeves of his fine white lawn shirt billowing, ruffles aflutter. Three sailors converged upon him, backing him against a wall, two of them slashing with swords as the other leveled his pistol, preparing to fire. Lyon moved with lightning speed, ducking, twirling, his free arm swinging out to loop around the throat of one of the men with swords. Holding the man in front of him in a deadly stranglehold, using him as a shield, he continued to thrust and parry, driving his blade through the heart of the man with the pistol, extracting it quickly, fencing coolly with the other sailor. He knocked the sword out of his hand and killed him neatly, and when he unwound his arm from his shield's throat, the man fell limply to the deck, strangled to death.
The deck was littered with bodies now, blood flowing in bright scarlet ribbons. Only a few sailors remained. Half the pirates had gone below to seek out more victims. They didn't intend to leave anyone alive. I watched as several pirates came merrily back up on deck, dragging along three unfortunate passengers, two older men in satin and lace and powdered wigs and a plump middle-aged woman in wine-colored velvet. The woman was struggling and shrieking. The two men were dazed. Laughing, yelling with savage glee, the pirates hauled the two men over to the railing and tossed them into the waves that, by now, were alive with sharks.
The woman broke free. She ran shrieking around the deck, stumbling over the bodies, waving her arms in the air. The pirates pursued her, delighted by the game, making no real effort to catch her at first. The woman fell down and spied a pistol and grabbed it and tried to fire, but they were upon her before she could pull the trigger. Taking hold of her by the wrists and ankles, they carried her over to the railing and swung her back and forth, swinging her over the railing, swinging her back, laughing, yelling, finally giving a final swing and releasing their holds. She went sailing through the air and disappeared into the water with a gigantic splash.
It was over. Everyone who had been on the ship was dead, and the ship itself was beginning to list dangerously. Pirates were coming up from below with chests and trunks, bringing them across the planks to deposit them on The Sea Lyon. Tremayne was wiping the blade of his knife and looking disappointed that there was no one else to kill. Red Nick was calmly issuing orders, his eyes as cold as blue ice, the heavy copper wave slanting damply across his brow.
Em straightened up and looked at me with eyes that were suddenly much older. Her features were taut, her mouth a tight line.
"Are you all right, Em?" I asked.
"I'm all right, luv. I'll never be the same again, but—I'm all right. I thought I'd seen a lot of terrible things in my life, but I—I've never seen anything like this."
"Thank God Corrie was below."
"I wish I'd been," Em said. "Oh, luv, I wish I'd been."
"We'd better go down now."
Em nodded, and we moved down the stairs and down the narrow hallway to the door of Tremayne's room. I was still in a state of shock. There was something hard and tight inside me, a grim, terrible resolution that had evolved without my even being aware of it. I knew what I was going to do. I had to do it. There was no alternative. Em looked at me, calm now, composed, fierce determination in her eyes.
"I wish I were on my way to Brazil," I said.
"No you don't, luv."
"I can't go through with this, Em. I just don't care anymore."
"I feel the same way, Marietta, but we've got to be sensible." Her voice was very firm. "We—we're going to have to forget what happened today. We're going to have to put it out of our minds and concentrate on surviving."
"I don't care about surviving, not any longer."
"You don't know what you're saying, luv. They're going to pay for what they did. I swear it. We're going to get away from them somehow, but before we do, they're going to pay. I don't know just how we'll go about it, but we're going to make them pay."
Her voice seemed to come from a great distance. I hardly heard her words. She took hold of my hands and held them tightly.
"We've got to be strong, Marietta."
"I'm tired of being strong," I said in a flat voice.
"You need a drink, luv. He has lots of fine brandy in that cabinet of his. Pour yourself a drink and you'll feel better. We'll be on the island in a day or two, and things will be easier."
She let go of my hands, her eyes full of concern. I nodded and left her at the door and went into the captain's quarters. I moved as though in a daze, not really conscious of what I was doing. I went into his dressing room and examined the pistols on the wall and finally took one down. I opened a drawer of the small bureau beside the wardrobe and, moving aside the piles of silk scarves and fine handkerchiefs, took out the box of bullets I had discovered some time earlier. I loaded the pistol and put the box back, closed the bureau drawer and went into the study to wait for him. I sat down and held the pistol at my side. It was hidden by the folds of my sapphire skirt.
I was perfectly calm, perfectly composed, and I felt no emotion whatsoever. I felt, instead, a curious detachment. I seemed to be entirely removed from the scene. I saw the woman with the copper-red hair who sat in a chair wearing a rich sapphire gown, a pistol at her side, and she had no connection with the woman who observed, removed, untouched, incapable of feeling. Time passed, perhaps half an hour, perhaps more, and when he finally opened the door and stepped into the room I was still in that strange, numb state which I vaguely realized was a state of complete shock.
He closed the door and looked at me and realized at once that something was wrong. He paused, examining me with expressionless blue eyes, his face inscrutable. He had killed at least half a dozen men, and he was totally unscathed, might just have returned from a leisurely promenade around the deck. His thick copper hair was dry now, the point of that heavy, slanting wave resting half an inch above his right eyebrow.
"You watched," he said.
"I watched."
"You should have come below."
"I should have, yes."
"Your voice sounds peculiar."
"Does it?"
"I'm sorry you witnessed it, Marietta, but perhaps it's just as well. You know now how we operate. Perhaps it will clear your mind of any foolish notions about the life you're going to lead."
"I'm not going to lead any kind of life with you."
"No?"
"I'm going to kill you," I said.
He showed not the least surprise or alarm when I raised the pistol. If anything, there was a hint of amusement in his eyes, and the faintest suggestion of a smile played on his lips.
"It seems we've gone through this before," he remarked.
"The pistol is loaded," I said.
He elevated his eyebrow. The blue eyes were definitely amused.
"I'm a crack shot," I told him.
Nicholas Lyon shook his head and the smile played full on his lips and he took a step toward me. I stood up and leveled the pistol at him, surprised at its weight, the strain on my wrist. My hand shook slightly, and he took another step. I pulled the trigger and the explosion was deafening in the confines of the room. The force of the blast caused me to reel backward and drop the pistol. The smoke cleared, and Nicholas Lyon stood there idly examining the red stain on the side of his arm.
"A crack shot, did you say?"
I was too stunned to reply. He shook his head again and, confirming the fact that the bullet had merely grazed the side of his arm, looked at me with mocking disappointment. He was actually pleased by what I had done. In some perverse way it made him admir
e me all the more. He reached into the waistband of his breeches and pulled something out, something long and flexible and glittering with a thousand fires.
"Melodramatics over? Yes? I picked up something for you, my dear, thought you might like it."
He tossed the strand of silvery-blue fire, and I caught it instinctively, not even thinking. The necklace was heavy, dozens of diamonds and flashing blue sapphires dripping between my fingers, alive with fire, dazzlingly alive, glittering with vibrant beauty. I knew that the necklace must have belonged to the woman in wine-colored velvet. I wanted to hurl it at him. I wanted to retrieve the pistol and shoot him through the heart, as I had intended, but I did neither. I examined the gems and then looked up at him with icy composure.
"Still want to kill me?" he asked.
"It can wait."
"You delight me, Marietta."
He stepped over to me, took the necklace, and moved behind me to place it around my neck. The jewels rested heavily against my collarbone, dripping down to the swell of my breasts. He rested his right hand on my shoulder and curled his right arm around my waist, drawing me back against him. I could smell blood and gunpowder and flesh.
"Such spirit," he said.
He raised his hand and lifted the hair from my temple and lowered his head to kiss the side of my neck. He pulled me even closer, his arm curling tightly, squeezing the breath out of me.
"You play such amusing games," he murmured.
"It wasn't a game."
"I must remember to keep dangerous toys locked up. Next time you might miss. Instead of grazing my arm you might put a bullet through me."
He turned me around and looked into my eyes, his own gleaming darkly. He actually thought I had staged the scene for his amusement. I was amazed, and I felt a new sense of power. He opened his mouth and ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip and then fastened his mouth hungrily over mine. I relaxed, pliant in his arms, yielding to his strength and hardness. He believed that he was in control, but he was quite mistaken. As his kiss grew more demanding, I thought about what Em had said. We were going to get away somehow, but before we did, they were going to pay.
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