Across Captive Seas

by Michele du Barry

  She couldn’t have caused more of a stir when she went downstairs if she had appeared stark naked. Angela stood silently, her aqua eyes blazing as they raked the guests in the drawing room. Her face was white with two bright spots of color high on each cheek and there were unmistakable signs of tears on her face. The unearthly look was only enhanced by her rumpled, stained dress, the sparkling jewels and the disorder of her black hair.

  All conversation ceased as everyone stared at the shaking, distraught woman that caused sensation wherever she went. Jane eyed the dangling whip uneasily wondering what had possibly happened, and the others wondered what was going to happen. As Keith entered the room escorting several latecomers he stood stock-still, aghast at Angela’s appearance and the awesome silence that met him.

  As if drawn to a magnet Angela approached him stopping several feet away. Her nostrils flared as if catching the vile scent of deception hanging about Keith and before he could move the lash curled toward him, slashing open his cheek. Blood spurted vermillion on his white shirt and she raised her arm again only to find it held tightly by Owen. He removed it from her hand releasing her, watching the drama being played out to completion.

  Keith looked at her dazed, his hand pressing against the wound on his face. Hate emanated from her like a heady perfume and a spasm of terror gripped him momentarily.

  “You,” Angela spat out venomously, “have just been challenged! My seconds will call on you and arrange the details.”

  “You’re crazy!” Keith burst out. “A woman can’t fight a duel, it’s impossible!”

  “I can and I will. I make my own rules and tomorrow I will kill you for what you have done to me and Scott!”

  A quaking began in Keith at the steely look in her eyes and the determination in her voice. She would do it! Angela would dare anything, and he could see himself lying dead on the wet, green grass at sunrise. He shook his head groggily to clear it of the vision.

  “Why?” The one word punctuated the silence of the room.

  Angela loosed a string of words describing Keith that made the ladies present gasp in astonishment. “Bastard! I heard everything outside the library tonight while you had your secret meeting with Captain Latham. Everything but one thing and that I found upstairs!” Dramatically Angela pulled the letter from her bodice, waving it beneath Keith’s startled nose.

  “You lied! Scott is not dead and I am not your wife! I belong to him in spite of all your conniving efforts to have him hanged. You do well to quake in your boots you bloody hypocrite, because this night will be your last on earth!”

  With her head held high Angela swept a haughty glance over everyone present, watching them shrink from her gaze. Then as regally as a queen she slowly left the room, hearing it dissolve into chaos behind her.

  “Is it true?” cried Jane rushing up to Keith and tugging on his arm.

  As he nodded, anguish enveloped her. Keith, her only brother, beloved companion, had stooped lower than hell. Keith whose code of honor had always been the most important part of his life had been felled by his passionate obsession for the one woman he couldn’t possess.

  Scott was alive and Jane could understand completely Angela’s wrath, but somehow it must be stopped. The duel could not occur! Her heart was split, part of her sympathizing with Keith, the other knowing Angela was right. But to threaten to kill him because of what had happened was too much. Keith’s public humiliation and the wound that would scar him for life was enough. Somehow she must talk Angela out of her folly.

  Without her being aware of it the guests quickly dispersed, like a fog before a fierce wind, leaving the room devoid of everything but the terrible reverberations of angry words and the wound of a whip cutting through flesh.

  Owen returned and saw brother and sister standing together unmoving in the middle of the room. Going to Jane he put his arm around her and tenderly drew her away from Keith.

  “Angela has asked me to be one of her seconds,” he announced watching her face grow pale.

  “You can’t. I won’t let this happen!”

  “I have already agreed! The subject is closed.” Then more gently, “Go upstairs now. Keith and I have much to talk about.”

  Angela wore a black riding habit in the chilly predawn mist. She had slept like a rock last night and woke determined to see this folly through. There had never been a duel fought between a man and a woman before and the word had spread all over the countryside last night. Although the time and place had been kept secret, many people were gathered. They had waited all night outside the house and had followed the participants.

  It would have been impossible to get rid of them and Angela didn’t want to postpone the duel for another time. It must happen now while her anger still crackled like lightning in a stormy summer sky.

  They had all tried to talk her out of the contest, everyone but Owen. He had only asked to take her place and fight Keith in her behalf. She refused and he conceded without further argument knowing it would be useless. The stage was set and they had only to wait for the morning sun to begin the action.

  Jane shivered watching the combatants beneath the ancient oak trees, silvered with strands of fog, slowly dissolving into the air. She wasn’t supposed to be there but nothing, not even Owen’s orders, could have kept her away. Her husband glared at her from some distance away, disapproval evident although she couldn’t make out the expression on his face.

  Neither of them had slept and Jane had cried most of the night. Nothing Owen had done or said could comfort her. Someone was going to die this morning—maybe Keith, maybe Angela or both. No, she corrected herself rubbing trembling gloved fingers together in an effort to warm them, there was no danger for Angela. Keith would never bring himself to harm her. So her heart wept for her brother; that he deserved what might happen to him did nothing to dispel her despair.

  The first rays of the sun turned the field of honor into a beautiful picture-book world of brilliantly green, dew-spangled grass, slanting in undulating waves through the shifting fog and the stirring leaves. The shadows cast were long and bold as the pistols were chosen. The hush was broken only by the wind in the trees, the gurgling of a nearby brook, and the awakening birds.

  The crowd huddled together for warmth safely out of range of danger, watching the scenario, avidly eager to remember every detail. Many present had attended the abortive dinner party the night before and wanted to see the quarrel through to the end. After all, what was happening this morning was a historical, if highly irregular, milestone in the long history of dueling. There had been two Italian women that had fought but nothing like this between a man and his wife—and a bigamous marriage at that!

  Keith chose a pistol, his blue eyes pleading silently with Angela to put a stop to this foolishness. But her eyes were as hard and unyielding as two transparent, green-blue stones. She took the other pistol and checked it carefully although Owen had just done so a few minutes before. Then Keith grabbed Angela’s wrist, his pale face with the bruised swollen cheek close to hers, his words passionate with deep feeling.

  “I know that what I did was despicable but I would do it again. No, I would do worse to have you for even the short time we were together! Just remember one thing, Angela, what I did, I did for love—and love covers a multitude of sins.”

  “Not this one!” She jerked free of him, loathing in the sneer she gave him. “You went too far this time, Keith, not caring whom you hurt! You used innocent people to gain your own ends and gave no heed to the pain you would cause to those who loved you. You make me sick! All this time I thought you were my friend, that you cared about me.”

  “But I did care. Too much!” He wheeled around shouting, “Let’s get on with it!” Then very quietly to Angela, “Kill me if you must but I won’t raise a weapon against you. Good-bye, my love!”

  It had begun. They stood back to back in the brilliant autumn morning and Owen, his voice ringing out clearly in the sharp air, started counting. They moved thirty pac
es apart and both turned.

  His words had nearly unnerved Angela and as she took aim her hand shook so much that she couldn’t have hit the side of a barn. Keith stood casually relaxed, his hair a golden blaze and his pistol dangling from one hand, pointed at the ground. He wasn’t even making a pretense of defending himself, like a prisoner suddenly calm awaiting the inevitability of the death sentence.

  He faced her squarely, not bothering to turn sideways to offer less of a target. Keith flashed a smile and called out loudly, “No matter what happens, Angela, I love you! Get it over with. Kill me, because life without you wouldn’t be worth living!”

  Now her whole body trembled and the pistol felt as heavy as a lead weight in her upraised hand. He had been everything to her in the intervening years: friend, traitor, lover, confidant, rescuer, brother, stepfather to her children, bogus husband, and cruel perpetrator of a ghastly hoax.

  All those things were in the past. The only thing that mattered now was what he had done to her and Scott. He had torn them apart and would have seen him hanged except for the judge’s sentence of transportation. Keith was in effect a murderer. She had lost Scott, her unborn baby, and her parents because of the events he had set in motion. Now everything had come full circle and what happened next was up to her.

  “For the man I love, my husband, Scott Harrington!”

  There was no hesitation as her firm fingers took careful aim, squeezing the trigger, hearing the loud report as if it came from miles away. Keith staggered clutching at his chest where a spreading scarlet stain reddened his white shirt. In slow motion he fell to the ground and Angela ran to him fleetly, beating even the doctor.

  Tears gushed from her eyes like the geyser of blood that pumped from Keith’s body, spurting all over Angela kneeling by his side. She pressed on the wound trying to stem the crimson tide that rushed hot and sticky between her fingers.

  “Oh, Keith, Keith! What have we done to each other in the name of love?”

  Keith’s glazed blue eyes focused briefly on the weeping woman beside him. “So you did love me a little?”

  The tenseness left his body and blood bubbled between his slack lips. Jane reached them then, staring uncomprehendingly from Keith to Angela.

  “He’s dead,” stated the doctor and Jane screamed throwing herself on the corpse that a few moments before had been her brother.

  “Oh, lord,” whispered Angela to herself. “What have I done? Could I have done any less?”

  The evening tide came in and the ship rocked gently as the anchor was weighed and they got under way. Men scrambled up the rigging like agile monkeys unfurling sails and seeing to the hundred and one odd jobs that attended departure. The bustle of activity was frantic and so were the docks. A couple stood waving, straining for a last look at loved ones departing for exotic places and ports of call.

  Angela stood at the railing of the Dark Lady waving to Jane and Owen. Many other curiosity seekers were there watching her depart, wondering what other adventures she would become embroiled in. Lorna and Robert were all eyes watching with undisguised delight everything that went on around them. Molly and Angus kept a firm grip on the excited children lest they fall overboard in the excitement.

  Waving at the figures growing smaller on the dock, Angela felt a wrench in the region of her heart. It would be a long time, perhaps years before she saw Jane and Owen again. The great unknown spread before her as vast as the trackless sea, beckoning her on. Scott was on the other side waiting for her and whatever dismay she felt at leaving her home and friends was just a pinprick compared with the growing joy of knowing every minute was bringing her closer to her husband.

  Their course was set for the West Indies and Jamaica over her vehement objections. There had been a terrible battle of words and wills between her and Captain Darnell when they had first met. As the owner of the ship she had ordered him to set sail immediately for Australia by the shortest route. He, on the other hand, had shown her the contracts, signed and delivered that bound him to deliver cargo elsewhere. Under no circumstances would he break his word and he threatened to quit if she insisted otherwise.

  It was a stalemate. If he quit it might take months before another qualified captain could be found and Angela was impatient to be off. The detour would take several months but after that the ship would be hers to command. The only other ship bound for Australia was a convict ship set to sail in the spring. So the compromise had been made, Jamaica first, then New South Wales. Whichever way she looked at it the Dark Lady would be quicker, and in Jamaica she could inspect their plantation.

  Locked safely away in the cabin she had shared before with Scott was Angela’s greatest triumph. The papers that Keith had so carefully kept, documenting the travesty of a trial, had been the key to freedom for Scott. When everything had been revealed to the judge he had revoked the sentence, declaring Scott not guilty. A copy of that order rested in Angela’s jewel case, the most important of all her possessions. With that small piece of paper Scott was free and they could once again resume a normal life together. All his lands and titles were restored and she was once again his wife.

  Excitement stirred Angela’s blood, warming her in spite of the stiff breeze. She stood clutching the railing tightly long after the others went below. The sailors covertly watched the beautiful woman bathed in the light of the setting sun. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of her perfect figure beneath the concealing cloak as the wind blew it aside, molding her clothes to her body.

  She was as still as a carved figurehead, her eyes the color of a tropical lagoon, fastened on the receding land mass. The sunset flamed in magnificence as if putting on a show as a last farewell. The sky blazed red, then orange, golden sprays of sunbeams illuminating the high-piled, castellated clouds. For one second her thoughts turned to Scotland, to the Bratach Sith, wondering if it had exacted enough punishment at last.

  The thought disappeared completely as Angela, with tears in her eyes and salt spray on her face, watched the green island that was England slip beneath the choppy sparkling waves.

  PART THREE

  * * *

  The Dark Lady

  The West Indies

  1809-1810

  I’ve been of thousand devils caught,

  And thrust into that horrid place,

  Where reign dismay, despair, disgrace.

  —George Crabbe

  Chapter Nine

  The voyage had been swift and uneventful, and Angela was thankful she was a good sailor. Molly had been dreadfully seasick the first week out and she had her hands full caring for her and the children. Robert and Lorna ran wild on the deck of the ship exploring everything, turning nut-brown beneath the warming sun. They had even tried climbing the rigging to Angela’s horror and both of them were caught and punished. Two days in the cabin had been the most excruciating of tortures for the two mischief makers and they didn’t soon forget it.

  The drenching downpour of a few minutes ago left as quickly as it had come, the laden clouds dropping their burden and passing swiftly out to sea. Although it was winter it was hotter than any English summer on the green tropical island. Now that the rain was over Angela felt damp and sticky, the humidity curling the loose wisps of raven hair around her face. Squirming inside her clothes which stuck uncomfortably to her perspiring skin she watched the unloading of the Dark Lady from the deck, vowing to wear only one petticoat during her stay.

  Jamaica was truly beautiful, a lush paradise set in crystal clear blue waters. The ocean was so transparent that in places Angela could see right to the bottom. There were colorful fish and assorted sea animals swimming in and out of jagged rock formations that Captain Darnell explained were coral reefs. They were formed over the centuries by the cementing together of the skeletons of tiny sea creatures that resembled plants. The children were quite taken with his explanations and Angela couldn’t help but be fascinated by the strange new sights around her.

  The captain was obviously infatuated with h
er, though he tried to hide it, and even if she listened eagerly to his detailed descriptions of the flora and fauna she was careful not to give him any encouragement. She had been troubled enough by unwanted suitors and wasn’t about to let another man fall in love with her. The results could be disastrous. Besides, Captain Darnell was an old friend of Scott’s and she didn’t want to be the cause of any estrangement between them.

  A trade wind sprang up, immediately relieving some of the heat of the day by stirring the heavy air. Angela was grateful as it played over her and she gazed at Fort Charles ensconced solidly by the shore. Port Royal, even the name seemed exotic, conjuring images of pirates and adventurers who had made the city their headquarters during their heyday in the sixteenth and seventeenth, centuries. Why a pirate had even been knighted and made lieutenant-governor of Jamaica!

  To be sure there still were pirates plying the warm, blue waters but their numbers were dwindling. They hid out in the maze of thousands of tiny uncharted islands, or cays, dotting the Caribbean Sea. The archipelago curved twenty-five hundred miles from South America to the Bahamas off the coast of Florida: encompassing the West Indies, Leeward Islands, Greater and Lesser Antilles, and the Windward Islands. There were a million places for skilled buccaneers to take cover and make their base of operations.

  The ride up into the foothills took well over an hour and Angela was immensely happy that the governor had insisted his carriage should transport them. Scott had bought no such fancy equipage during his stay and the only thing available from Bluehills were the rough, unsprung farm carts. The dirt road was narrow and deeply rutted as it twisted its puddled way through the ever-increasing denseness of foliage. The well-sprung carriage bobbed like a cork in the ocean shaking the passengers, to the amusement of Robert and Lorna who enjoyed the bucking ride greatly.