Pirate Wolf Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  CHAPTER ONE

  “We were lucky this time, lass. Dead lucky. There’s a brace o’ mortars in the stern that would’ve ripped our guts out sure as they ripped out the guts o’ the Englishman, given half the chance. Sheer bloody luck o’ the devil it was, an’ I’d be damned to believe it if I hadn’t seen it with me own eyes.”

  Nathan Crisp was quartermaster on board the Iron Rose. He stood all of five foot tall, which put his eyes on level with Juliet’s chin, but he had the neck and shoulders of a bulldog, and could lift a man twice his size without straining a muscle. What he did not know about the sea, about guns, about sailing in fair weather or foul did not bear knowing, and despite being crusty as a barnacle at times, Juliet trusted him as implicitly as she trusted her own instincts.

  “How badly is the English ship damaged?”

  Crisp shook his head. “I’ve yet to go on board and have a good look, but she’s well down below the waterline an’ the only thing holdin’ her up are the cables attached to this bloody galleon. That last explosion took out her magazine an’ half the upper deck.”

  Juliet scanned the hazy line of the horizon. “We have but a few hours of daylight left and a great deal to do before we can get underway. Where do you suppose the captain of this beast is hiding?”

  “He scuttled below like a rat when this lot began to throw down their swords.”

  Juliet’s eyes were pale, silvery blue, and at Crisp’s words, they sparked with darker flecks of anger. “Hell and damnation! He’ll be after throwing his manifests and logs overboard before we can see them.”

  The hatchway leading below to the captain’s quarters was locked from the inside, but a few strokes of a battleaxe reduced the escutcheon to a decorative scrap of iron on the deck.

  Juliet, holding two loaded pistols before her, led the way along the narrow passageway to the great cabin. As on most Spanish galleons, the captain’s quarters assumed the entire breadth of the stern and Juliet stood aside while Crisp smashed through the heavy oak door. In the instant it took for all the crimson velvet and gilded furniture to register on her senses, she saw two officers standing by the ruined mass of cherrywood that had once been a magnificently appointed escritoire. The capitán de mar, identified by the ornamented breastplate and wide, pleated neck ruff, was swabbing his forehead with a lace handkerchief while the officer beside him was stuffing papers and ledgers into a bulging canvas sack. The latter wore a cuirass dented from battle damage, his face was streaked black with soot beneath the curved rim of his cone-shaped helmet.

  Juliet raised both pistols aiming them squarely at the captain’s chest.

  Crisp did likewise, grinning wide over a minimum of uneven front teeth. “Ah, but it’s a clever lass who knows her enemies so well.”

  In a louder voice, he addressed the two Spaniards. “Now then, what manner of foolery do we have here? Should we be thankin’ ye kindly for actin’ so quick to gather yer important papers together? Or should we be thinkin’ ye’re eager to hide something ye’d rather we didn’t see?”

  The captain was heavy-set, with a girth as round as a barrel and legs the size of tree trunks squeezed into stockings so tight the seams were strained. His face was red, running with sweat that dripped onto the top of the desk as he started muttering under his breath to his first officer.

  Crisp scowled, for he knew only enough coarse Spanish to tell an enemy to drop his weapon or the sharks would be feeding on his spleen.

  It was Juliet who smiled and said in soft, perfectly accented Castilian, “And if he should indeed take one step toward the gallery door with the intent of throwing that sack overboard, Señor Capitán-General, I shall blow the top of his head off. His first,” she added, shifting the aim of her guns to make her meaning clear. “Then yours, of course.”

  The captain looked over, startled by her fluency, and another droplet of sour sweat fell on the desk. He bore one small bruise on his forehead, the flesh an angry blue, and it was to this blow Juliet credited his blinking dullness for he did nothing but continue to stare. The officer by his side was a soldier, however, not merely a posturing figurehead. He stiffened with indignation, so much so the reflections of sunlight from the broken gallery windows cut briefly through the shadows beneath the rim of his helmet.

  His eyes were small and close-set, black as empty sockets. Rage tightened his lips to a thin line as he responded to Juliet in equally excellent English. “You dare issue your paltry threats! Do you know to whom you speak with such crude impertinence?”

  “I have no doubt you feel obliged to enlighten me.”

  His voice was a mere hiss of sound. “You have the effrontery to stand before Don Diego Flores Cinquanto de Aquayo.”

  “Aquayo,” she murmured. Juliet searched her memory for the name—mentally giving thanks to the taskmaster who had drummed into her the importance of knowing every ship that patrolled the Caribbee—and came up with a match. “Then this must be the Santo Domingo.”

  She tried to keep her voice level, her breathing even but she could feel the sudden pounding of blood in her temples. She could also hear the involuntary catch in Nathan’s throat and guessed that he had almost swallowed the glutinous wad of tobacco leaves he customarily chewed during an engagement. The Santo Domingo was one of the largest and finest warships in His Catholic Majesty’s fleet in Nuevo España. At eight hundred tons, mounting fifty-two heavy guns, she had been touted to be both invincible and unsinkable. Moreover, at last count, she had been credited with the capture or sinking of at least fourteen privateers from three nations who hunted along the Spanish shipping lanes.

  “You are a long way from Vera Cruz,” Juliet said calmly. “I would have thought, after you escorted the new Viceroy from Hispaniola to San Juan de Ulloa, you would have remained to help celebrate his appointment.”

  “You are very well informed,” said Aquayo, gasping for breath—or belief.

  Juliet tipped her head to acknowledge the compliment. “We pay very high bribes to your port officials to ensure it is so. As for my threats, señor maestre—” Juliet switched her focus back to the military commander as she caught his hand inching toward the butt of a pistol that was partly hidden in the debris on the desk— “I can promise you they are not the least paltry, for at this close range, I expect the shot would remove the greater half of your skull even if my aim wavered by a twitch or two.”

  “An’ that’s never happened in all the years I’ve known her,” Crisp warned dryly. “So unless ye want to insult yer captain-general more by having yer brains splashed all over his fine gold braid, I suggest ye set the sack down slowly an’ step carefully to one side.”

  The officer’s coal black eyes narrowed and Juliet could see him weighing the odds of his reaching the gun and surviving long enough to fire it. He wore the thin moustache and pointed beard favored by the Spanish nobility, yet the fact his rank had been earned through military service and not by royal appointment like his captain, suggested there was some illegitimate taint in his bloodlines somewhere.

  “You must be the one they call la rosa de hierro,” he murmured. “The iron rose.”

  “My ship is the Iron Rose, señor. Those aboard her call me Captain.”

  “I will call you puta,” he spat, “and it will give me great pleasure one day to spread your legs and encourage my soldiers to repay you for the trouble you have caused today.”

  Juliet pursed her lips to give the insult the consideration it merited. “I am sure their efforts would bore me, señor, as do yours.”

  “Spoken like a true whore-bitch. Just like your mother before you.”

  Juliet’s expression did not change, but her eyes turned as cold as frost, a sight known to raise the hackles of those aware of their own mortality.

  “You know my mother, señor?”

  A smirk spread slowly across his face. “We are also well informed, puta, although the reputation of Isabeau Dante—a whore of such magnitude—comes without cost.”

  The Spaniard�
�s grin was still full of insolence and arrogance as Juliet adjusted the aim of the pistols, gave the triggers a quick caress, and blinked through the delayed ignition of gunpowder. Both wheel-locks spun and fired simultaneously, the result of the twin explosions causing Aquayo to cross his arms over his head and drop to the floor with a scream.

  “An insult to me is one thing, señor maestre,” she said evenly, watching the army officer stagger back against the bulkhead in shock. “But an insult to my dear mother... well... that is quite another.”

  ~~~

  With the logs and manifests sent safely back to the Iron Rose, Juliet accompanied Crisp on board the English carrack to assess the damage. In truth, there was not much left to assess, for her masts were gone, her rails were little more than jagged spikes, and what timbers remained intact on the upper deck would not do so for long in light of the fires that raged from above and below. Dead and pieces of the dead were strewn everywhere, lying in rivulets of blood that flowed to and fro across the planking with the motion of the ship.

  “How long before she goes down?” Juliet asked softly.

  “She’s drinkin’ the sea faster than any ten pumps could spew it out. Nog’s checkin’ now, but he thinks she’s been holed below the waterline. Looks to me like the Spaniards weren’t in the mood to take her back to Havana. Or to leave any witnesses behind.”

  Juliet nodded grimly. “Target practise. For their gunners as well as their musketeers. How many survivors do you estimate?”

  “I counted less than forty who can stand on their own,” he said. “Only two of those appear to be officers. There’s another score an’ a half with minor wounds, but easily twice that number who’ll be dead if we try to move them. I’ve not made a count of the Spaniards yet, but I’d say we accounted ourselves well. We’ve less than a dozen injured an’ only one death.”

  “Who?”

  “Billy Crab. Caught a musket ball in the brain.”

  Red hair, a lot of freckles. Juliet knew every member of the crew well enough to take each loss personally.

  “Who is in command here?” Crisp asked, raising his voice to be heard above the whoosh and crackle of burning fires.

  “I must assume I am.” One of the two officers Crisp had already identified limped forward through the smoke. He was young, perhaps five and twenty, but it was obvious he was no stranger to combat. His face, handsome enough on the one side, bore telling scars on the other. A melted plate of stretched, shiny flesh distorted the entire left side of his face from above the temple to below the starched line of his collar. The ear was a curled mass of pink skin and his cheek, when he spoke, was stiffened by the scar tissue, setting his mouth at an odd cant.

  Juliet, who had seen far more hideous disfigurements over the years, was not as concerned with the officer’s appearance as she was with his character. The galleon was a huge and cumbersome ship, and would be difficult to sail without the help of the English seamen.

  The officer instinctively addressed Nathan, pulling himself together for the makings of a salute. “Lieutenant John Beck, His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

  “What ship?” Crisp asked.

  “The Argus, under the former command of Captain Angus Macleod, God rest his soul.”

  “Might we ask what ye did to piss off the Spaniard?”

  Beck’s nostrils flared with indignation. “We did nothing, sir. We are a courier ship, bound for New Providence; we carry a minimum of cargo. We did absolutely nothing to invite their interest or provoke their attack. We came through the storm and she was there, riding the edge of the horizon. She saw us and gave chase, then the next thing we knew ... ” He tensed and wiped at a persistent trickle of blood that was flowing over his eye. When he blinked it clear, he studied Crisp’s casual canvas trousers, the loose white shirt and double leather bandoliers that held an assortment of pistols and knives. “Might we venture to surmise you are not in the king’s service, sir?”

  “Ye might venture it, aye. But if ye’re thinkin’ our cap’n flies the jolie rouge, ye’d be mistaken again, for a pyrate would have let the Spaniard sink ye then moved in to pick over the bones.”

  The words were hardly reassuring but Beck was gracious nonetheless. “I should like to take this opportunity to extend the heartfelt gratitude of myself and the crew, and indeed the crown, for coming forth against such odds and at such terrible risk to the safety of your own ship and crew. I stand humbled and in awe of your captain, whom I sincerely hope I shall have the honor of meeting forthwith.”

  Crisp shifted the wad of tobacco he was chewing from one cheek to the other. “Ye can have the honor now, if ye like. Lieutenant... Beck, was it?” He gave a half turn and held a hand out toward Juliet. “Cap’n Dante.”

  Beck’s gaze seemed to take a moment to shift from Crisp to the tall slender figure standing beside him. Dark reddish hair was gathered back into a thick plait and covered by a blue bandana. The face beneath was streaked with grime, a shirt that had once been white was stained with blood and black powder. Wide leather crossbelts slung over the shoulders housed an arsenal of pistols, daggers, pouches for powder and shot, and while the shirt was loose-fitting and could have hidden anything beneath, the breeches were moleskin and molded snugly to hips and legs that were suddenly all too obviously feminine.

  “Good God, sir. You’re a woman.”

  “The last time I looked, aye, I was,” Juliet said, reserving her smile.

  “A female captain? Of a privateer?”

  Juliet crossed her arms over her chest and responded to the redundancies with a fine Dante glare.

  Beck swallowed his astonishment and drew himself sharply to attention. “First Lieutenant Jonathan Grenville Beck, His Majesty’s Royal Navy. At your service, Captain Dan... Dan... ” His chin came trembling down as his jaw gaped again. “...Dante?” he whispered. “Surely not... the Black Swan?”

  Juliet blew out a wry sigh and glanced at Crisp. “Really, this is too much. First I am mistaken for an iron rose, now a black swan. Are my features truly so vague and obscure?”

  Nathan Crisp cocked an eyebrow. “Ye would benefit from a good scrub, aye.”

  “Please,” Beck interjected. “I... I meant no offense. Isabeau Dante’s name is well known throughout the fleet. Indeed, it is almost as legendary as that of—” he stopped again, but there was apparently not enough strength left in his body to absorb this most final and overwhelming shock. “You... would not happen to be any relation to the privateer, Simon Dante... would you?”

  He almost looked as though he wished she would answer in the negative, but of course, that was not possible.

  “He is my father.”

  “Your... ? Oh... my... good... God.”

  The lieutenant swayed through a rush of light-headedness as all the blood appeared to drain out of his face. Crisp clapped him stoutly on the shoulder.

  “Bah, she isn’t half so frightening as all that, lad. Leastwise not unless ye prick her temper. Many a man on board the Rose can show ye the blisters to swear to that.”

  Over a frosty glare intended to curb Crisp’s humor, Juliet indicated the deck with a tilt of her head. “You should see to your men, Mr. Beck. Your ship is sinking and they need to be removed from the Argus at once.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Wh-what are your intentions toward the crew of the galleon?”

  “Do you care?”

  The undamaged half of Beck’s face tightened beneath the oily sheen of sweat and filth as he cast a slow glance around the broken ruin of the Argus. “They attacked without provocation and would have sunk us without qualm. Do I care what becomes of them? No. At this precise moment, God save me but no.”

  “Then get about your duties, Lieutenant, and leave the troublesome details to us.”

  He held Juliet’s unwavering gaze for another moment, then offered a stiffly executed bow before leaving to supervise his crew.

  Juliet watched him limp away then pursed her lips and murmured thoughtfully, “A courier? What on ear
th would a naval courier ship be doing in these waters?”

  Crisp was already moving in the direction of the stern cabins. “His Majesty’s officers are almost as meticulous as the Spanish in keeping good accounts of where they have been an’ where they are bound. I’ll see to any dispatches an’ charts; you get yerself back over to the Rose.”

  He vanished into the wall of belching smoke and Juliet was taking a last look around when an incongruous splash of color caught her eye. Two bodies were tangled together in the midst of the blackened ruins near the base of the mainmast. The uppermost one was wearing a lavender velvet doublet and lying beside him was the cavalier’s hat that had been so gallantly tipped by way of a salute on board the Spaniard.

  Juliet had almost forgotten about the champion who had come to her aid in the heat of battle. He looked dead and she guessed he had been caught in the blast that had destroyed the ship’s magazine, for everything else around him was smoldering, scorched by the force of the exploding gunpowder. Patches of charred velvet smoked across his shoulders and buttocks. He had a lump the size of a gull’s egg at the back of his skull, and a thin thread of blood was leaking from his ear from the concussion. The splendid fan of plumes on his hat had been reduced to burnt and bristled shafts, while the exquisitely jewelled dagger she had last seen clutched in his hand lay several feet away, glittering brightly against the rubble.

  He was sprawled face down, his arms spread wide like a crucifix. Above his shoulders—which were impressively wide for a man who chose to wear lavender velvet—his features were obscure by the tumbled waves of long chestnut hair. But his clothes were very fine indeed. The lace at his throat and cuffs was worth almost as much as the solid silver buckles on his shoes. The peasecod doublet was trimmed in gold braid, emphasising the high waist in back and, if memory served, the deep vee in front. The sleeves were fitted, with a rolled band at the shoulder embroidered with gold stripes. Legs that were long and well formed were clad in trunk hose padded to a bell shape, worn over silk stockings that would have been the envy of a king.