Pirate Wolf Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  “If they choose to run, it will be fine odds for our friends farther north.”

  “Aye, they’ll’ve heard our thunder an’ they’ll know the storm is on the way.” Nathan winked at Varian as he said this, then chuckled. “Mayhap, if the galleons are all swallowed into the shoals an’ vanish without a trace, the Spaniards will start thinkin’ there be mysterious powers at work in these waters.”

  It was a good jest and won a smile from Varian, who truth be told, would not be struck to his soul with disappointment if the fleet decided to cut their losses and move on. Eight warships and twenty-three merchantmen: Juliet had said it so calmly, as if facing their combined firepower would be like stroll down Mayfair on a sunny afternoon.

  The thought left him wondering, not for the first time over the past weeks, what his mother’s reaction would be if he were to stroll anywhere in London, indeed in all of England, with Juliet Dante on his arm. For a certainty the staunch-lipped matriarch would drop into a swoon that would require an entire nest of scorched feathers to restore her senses. He could also envision the expressions on the faces of his friends and acquaintances when he recounted how he met his ravishing pirate wench, how he had stood by her side on the deck of a tall ship and watched those silvery eyes dare the entire Spanish treasure fleet to come feel the heat of her guns.

  Unfortunately he could only see one of those silvery eyes himself, for the other was still fastened to the spyglass. Something in her expression had changed. Her jaw was rigid, her lips were pressed into a thin white line, and despite the warmth of her tan, the blood was draining from her face, leaving her skin a sickly yellow. She was no longer looking at the almirante, challenging it to sally forth. Her unblinking stare was fixed on a pair of ships near the rear of the pack.

  She reached out, grabbing empty air before she was able to snatch hold of Crisp’s arm.

  “What is it, lass? What do ye see? Is it more company coming, then?”

  She couldn’t answer. She could not even lower her glass to look at him and Nathan snapped his own brass and leather glass open, holding it to his eye again.

  Varian scanned the distant line of ships but saw nothing with the naked eye that would explain Juliet’s frozen expression. The galleons had definitely huddled closer together though there were still a few stragglers riding well off the starboard flank.

  Crisp swore and lowered the glass, squinting out at the water a moment before he raised the glass and leaned forward over the rail as if it would bring him that much closer.

  He gasped, sucked the air into his lungs a moment, then released it on an explosive curse.

  “Jesus wept,” he hissed. “It’s Cap’n Gabriel’s ship. It’s the Valor. And she’s sailing under a Spanish flag”

  ~~~

  Gabriel stuck the end of his tongue into the socket at the back of his mouth and toyed with the empty space. It was the only part of him that was able to move. The ropes around his wrists and ankles pretty well assured he could not get up and walk around, nor even wipe at the blood that had crusted over his eye. And if he raised his head, the bastards would know he was conscious again and the beating would resume.

  It had taken the efforts of two warships and four pataches to finally drive him ashore off Havana, and while he would gladly have fought to the death, as would all of his men, it would have been an arrogant waste of good lives. Jonas and the Tribute were away and clear—he surely would have heard the Spaniard’s boasting if they were not—and if Gabriel knew anything at all about his brother, it was that he was as persistent as a mongrel. He would not allow his little brother to be shackled in chains and bound to oars in a slave galley. Moreover, when Jonas told their father what had happened... damnation, but he could almost feel sorry for these Spanish bastards.

  All but one.

  Gabriel had recognized him at once from Juliet’s description. The narrow, hawk-like face, the dead black eyes, the missing earlobes. He surmised the bastard must have been important, or had a great deal of influence, or had simply shown he was vicious enough to deserve the privilege of “questioning” the prisoners, for he had not only been among the first to come on board the captured Valor, he had subsequently assumed command.

  Capitán Cristobal Nufio Espinosa y Recalde.

  The name, like the pain from the myriad of bruises his henchman had battered onto his body, throbbed through his head like a religious chant. That and kill the bastard, crush the bastard, choke the bastard.

  Just give me one chance at the bastard. One small opening.

  It was apparent they had decided the Valor was not too badly damaged to be of some use to them back in Spain. Gabriel could hear sawing and hammering, and part of him was pleased his ship was being repaired. Another part hoped they were good carpenters, for it became quickly obvious their sailors did not know how to handle so much power and response from the helm. They were accustomed to sails that were square-rigged, set in configurations that were fixed. The Spaniards had little or no knowledge of how to adjust the sheets fore and aft to catch the best draught of wind and that was why, after one near collision with another galleon, the Valor had been relegated to a position outside the orderly vee.

  Gabriel was being held belowdecks in what had been his quartermaster’s small cabin. The door had been smashed off it’s hinges and there was only a chair nailed to the centre of the floor. There was always at least one guard posted in the outer passageway, but more often two, as if they still considered him, trussed and battered, a dangerous threat.

  You bastards have no idea.

  When Recalde came to visit he brought a lamp, but otherwise it was gray and murky, the only source of light an eight by eight inch porthole with the hatch partly closed. The air was thick with particles of floating dust, and because they had kept him bound hand and foot to the chair for two days without relief, the smell of his own blood and urine was a constant incentive to stay alive, to wait for that one unguarded moment.

  He could only imagine what he must look like. The first day they had stripped him down to his linens, searching for any weapons he might have hidden in his clothes, and never bothered to dress him again. Two days and several interrogations later, skin that was not splattered with blood was bruised a dark blue. He had a cut over his eye they took particular pleasure in re-opening on the first punch of each session. There was another on his cheek, and he knew his lips were a swollen mass of splits and scabs. He hadn’t been able to feel his feet or hands or even wiggle his fingers since the day before; the ropes were bound tight to ensure there was no possibility of him working them loose and for all he knew, his fingers had turned black and fallen off. He had very little hearing in his left ear, but couldn’t tell if it was a result of the beatings or because it was just full of congealed blood. The right side was still functioning. Enough for him to hear the cannonading early that morning. Enough to hear the more recent volleys that had brought Recalde striding into the cabin and soiling his own gloves by dealing him a blow to the jaw that genuinely knocked him out for a few minutes.

  He opened his good eye a crack, wondering if the Spaniard was still there. He was quiet as a python and had fooled Gabriel before.

  The thought was barely finished when his hair was grabbed and his head jerked upright. The grunt that escaped his lips was not feigned, for each time the bastard pulled him up by the hair, it felt as though his entire scalp was about to rip off.

  “I see you have come back to us, señor Dante,” Recalde said in clear English. “Ah ah.” He held up a warning finger. “If you spit at me again, I shall instruct Jorge to cut out your tongue.”

  Gabriel rolled his eyeball in Jorge’s direction. A massive, ugly brute, he would have made Lucifer look like a delicate princeling. His fists were the size of sledge hammers, his shoulders resembled a series of powder barrels strapped together, the muscles bulging in hard, round shapes. Most of the damage on Gabriel’s body had been accomplished by bored slaps and lightweight punches and Dante had no burning desire
to see what the leviathan could do with a blade.

  Recalde released the clutch of hair, pleased to see the comprehension in the wolf cub’s eyes. “A wise decision.”

  Gabriel started to let his head sink forward again, but stopped when he saw Recalde’s gloved fist move as if to snatch back the fistful of hair.

  “I am not a man who believes in coincidences.” Recalde leaned down so that his breath bathed Gabriel’s face with the smell of garlic. “It was no coincidence we caught you and your brother scouting Havana. It was no coincidence our ships have been under recent attack off the coast of Hispaniola. Nor was it a coincidence—albeit both ambushes were brilliantly executed—that our fleet has come under attack twice today.”

  He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “It is no wonder your family has a reputation for audacity. Had this infernal ship sailed faster, I would have been able to stop this latest travesty before two more of our fine vessels were lured to their doom.”

  “You should have put me at the helm,” Gabriel croaked. “I would gladly have sped you right into the heart of the fray.”

  Jorge took an ominous step forward, but Recalde held up a hand. “No. No, the offer is a generous one, and I accept. You may indeed go topside, señor Dante. In fact, your crew is there already, waiting for you to join them, to lead them as we go forth to meet the infamous pirata lobo. Jorge, untie the gentleman. Careful of his hands, they are so swollen the skin might burst if the blade slips the smallest degree.”

  Gabriel did not feel the knife parting the ropes. Moreover his hands and feet fell like leaden weights the moment they were free, and he was fairly certain he would not be able to stand on his own.

  Recalde signalled to a pair of guards who were waiting out in the passageway. All bustle and efficiency, they hastened into the cabin, taking Gabriel up under each arm and dragging him out between them. They hauled him up the ladderway, his feet slapping the steps like wooden blocks, and when they reached the deck, they paused a moment to allow Recalde to climb ahead of them to the quarterdeck.

  By then, Gabriel’s horror was such that his battered eye cracked open of it’s own accord. His gasp of outraged disbelief came out sounding more like a cry and drew equally helpless cries of rage from his crewmen when they saw the broken condition of their gallant captain.

  Each member of the Valor’s crew was stripped to the waist, bound hand and foot to the shrouds, to the rails, forming a shield of human flesh around the upper deck.

  Gabriel was taken up to the quarterdeck where his arms and legs were similarly bound, spread-eagled, to the rat lines in plain view of anyone with a spyglass. He started shouting profanities before the ropes were applied, as did his men, and when the din became more annoying than amusing, Recalde nodded to several of his soldiers, who started savagely lashing the naked backs, shoulders, bellies of the bound men. They whipped and lashed until they were drenched with sweat, spattered with blood, and the din had been reduced to whimpered curses.

  “Now then.” Recalde stood on the quarterdeck behind Gabriel. “I am sure your family would like to see that you are alive and... reasonably unharmed for the moment. Shall we go and pay them that visit now? I am particularly anxious to renew my acquaintance with your sister,” he murmured, reaching up to touch a mutilated ear. “As I recall I made a promise to her at our last meeting and I know my entire crew is looking forward to honoring it. Jorge first, I think. The poor fellow’s prick is so big, even the whores are terrified of him, but I think la rosa de hierro would be eager to accommodate him if she thought it might save your life. What do you think, señor Dante? Does she value your life enough to sacrifice her own?”

  “Go to hell,” Gabriel snarled. “Go straight to bloody hell.”

  Recalde sighed and nodded to Jorge, who lifted a bucket full of the salted brine used to preserve meat and threw it over Gabriel’s head and body. Some splashed the man hanging next to him, whose back had been slashed by a whip, and he let loose such a scream it set all one hundred and twenty of the Valor’s bound crewman quivering in the lines.

  Gabriel had made no sound. Every muscle, every sinew in his body remained clenched through the inconceivable agony of brine seeping into his open wounds. Just when he thought he might be able to open his eyes and breathe again, he heard the order to put on all sail and felt the Valor leap forward with a response. They were breaking away from the fleet and heading straight for the cays. Moreover, they were not going forth alone. Following in their wake were three of the biggest warships in the fleet, their gun ports open, their decks cleared for action.

  ~~~

  “Gabriel,” Juliet whispered. “Dear God, it’s Gabriel... there, in the shrouds.”

  Crisp’s lips moved but the oaths were either too foul to vent or the air in his lungs suddenly too sparse to give them sound.

  They had fired another shot to alert her father and Geoffrey Pitt that more company was imminent, but there had been no quick way to warn them of the fact that one of the four ships was the Valor. Juliet had sent a messenger back in a jolly boat, but that was before they bristled out to meet the oncoming threat and saw the human shield. Neither the Avenger nor the Dove had come through the channel yet and Juliet had to assume they were still dealing with the first two galleons. There would be prisoners to disarm, perhaps even set ashore under guard to ensure they would not retake the ships and strike from behind.

  Juliet knew she could not strike out alone against four ships, she simply did not have the firepower. And if the Valor had been taken over by the Spaniards, she would not even have speed as an advantage, for the two ships were well matched and any attempt she made to come in fast would be met with an equally nimble counterattack from her brother’s ship.

  Not that any of that mattered now. As soon as she saw the crew tied to the shrouds, it changed everything. Every scrap of nerve, courage, and bravado sank to her toes and she knew the mind-numbing shock of real fear.

  “What are yer orders lass?” Crisp asked softly. “The men are lookin’ to ye.”

  “Dear Christ,” she muttered. “If we fight, we’ll be killing Gabriel and every other man in his crew.”

  “They’ll be killed anyway. An’ if we run, the bastards will make straight for the channel. They’ll know the men on shore won’t fire an’ neither will yer father, then we’ll all be in a fine mess.”

  “Wait,” Varian said. “Look... they’re slowing down, they’re splitting up.”

  The trio watched as the warships took down sail and carved wide swaths through the water to line up in a blockade formation a mile offshore. The only ship that continued to move forward was the Valor, and inside half a mile, it too presented a broadside, gliding parallel to the shoreline.

  It was not the most gracefully executed insult, for there were yards aligned wrong and the ship turned far too slowly, something Juliet noted but was helpless for the moment to know how to use to their advantage. All she could think of at the moment was her brother tied helplessly to the shrouds. She wasn’t quite ready to dismiss his life as easily as Crisp, though she understood emotion had no place on the deck of a fighting ship. They had all understood the risks before they left New Providence. They understood the risks each and every time they sailed out of Pigeon Cay.

  She glanced quickly over her shoulder, but there was still no sign of the Avenger. Turning back, she caught Varian’s eye and held it a moment, wondering if he, with his annoying ability to read her every thought, could read them now.

  “The Spaniards are soldiers,” he said quietly. “They think like soldiers, not like seamen.”

  “What of it?”

  “A parlay,” he advised.

  “What?”

  “Ask for a parlay. Find out what they want, what they are prepared to do to get it.”

  “I already know what they want,” she snapped. “And I know damned well what they are prepared to do to get it.”

  “Then use it to buy some time. Send me over under a white fla
g and let me talk to them.”

  “You? Why the devil would I send you?”

  “Because I am the king’s emissary and still have the power to negotiate a truce.”

  “A truce?” She nearly spat the word. “They don’t want a truce, they want blood. Mine and my father’s.”

  “Just so, but they also don’t know if it is just you and your father they have to deal with. Thus far, they have only seen the Iron Rose and the Avenger. For all they know, there could be a dozen more ships lying in wait behind the cays.”

  “You want to try to bluff them?” She looked at him even more aghast, if that was possible. “If they don’t believe you—which they won’t—they will kill you. At the very least, there is no guarantee they won’t tie you up in the shrouds alongside my brother.”

  “I am not that easy to kill, you should know that by now. And if they tie me in the shrouds beside your brother, I will be in excellent company. Lower a boat and show a flag,” he urged gently. “Let them know you want to negotiate. It is what any good general would do, and what any well trained soldier would expect.”

  Her eyes remained lock to his in an unrelenting grip while a hundred different reasons for denying his request flashed through her mind. One above all set the blood pounding in her temples, not loudly enough however, to drown out the grim command she gave to Nathan Crisp to ready a jolly boat and find a white flag.

  “Give me five minutes,” Varian said, glancing over her shoulder at the glowering quartermaster. “And four of your strongest oarsmen so I don’t have time to change my mind.”

  He looked at Juliet one last time, then dashed below to find clothes more suitable for a king’s emissary. The royal blue velvet doublet and breeches he had worn to impress the privateer captains were crushed but wearable, and he was struggling to fasten the starched ruff around his neck when he heard the cabin door open behind him.

  When Juliet saw how badly his fingers were fumbling the task, she took the ruff and the ruby brooch gently out of his hands. “Let me do that before you stab yourself. I would have thought you had acquired some skill in dressing yourself since Beacom’s departure.”