A split second later, Sampson bellowed, “Hard a-port!” and once again the steersman leaned on the tiller and angled the sloop to the left. Only one of the cannon on the British ship had fired, and that ball went into the sea with a big splash, although it landed closer to the Calypso than the previous shots had.
Preacher lowered the rifle and looked at the man he had targeted, who was now reeling back and clutching the hand that had held the slow match. Preacher didn’t know if his ball had struck the match or the hand itself, but he had stopped the man from touching off the cannon’s charge without killing him, which had been his intention. At that range and firing from one ship to another, it had taken a near-miracle to make such a shot, and Preacher was well aware that he could have killed the British sailor.
But he hadn’t, and as he reloaded, he picked out his next target, a man about to use a wet wad of cotton on the end of a pole to swab out the barrel of the other cannon and extinguish any lingering sparks from the previous shot.
“Come around, come around!” Sampson shouted. “Starboard gunners ready!”
Abner Rowland called back to him, “Starboard gunners ready, aye!”
Preacher was ready again, too. As the man on the British ship lifted the pole, Preacher fired. The ball hit the swab and knocked it out of the man’s hands. He dived for cover, in case some other rifleman was drawing a bead on him.
“Fire!” Sampson roared.
CHAPTER 27
The Calypso had swung around so that it was broadside to the British merchant ship. The six cannon on its starboard side exploded in a ragged volley. The gunners had aimed them well. Preacher saw several of the shots strike the merchantman. Splinters flew as some of the balls crashed into the hull, while others ripped through the sails or skipped along the deck, wreaking bloody havoc among the British sailors.
Preacher’s jaw tightened. Trenches appeared in his cheeks as a grim expression settled over his face. Men were dying over there, he knew, and even though it wasn’t his doing, he felt like he should have stopped the attack somehow. Unfortunately, the odds stacked against him were too great to overcome—for now.
“Reload!” Sampson snapped at him. “Reload, blast it!” The captain’s right hand gripped Preacher’s shoulder while he pointed with his left. “See the fellow there on the bridge? That’s the cap’n. Kill him!”
Preacher’s muscles responded automatically. He rammed a powder charge and a round ball down the rifle’s barrel and then primed the weapon. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed at the figure Sampson had pointed out on the other ship. Instead of pressing the trigger right away, though, he waited a couple of seconds until the Calypso bobbed and fired then.
The British captain’s black hat leaped into the air. The man crouched instinctively and looked around.
“Ye missed him!” Sampson yelled as he smacked a hand into the middle of Preacher’s back. “Ye said ye were a good shot!”
The mountain man’s first impulse was to turn and slam the rifle’s butt into Sampson’s face. He managed to control that, but it wasn’t easy.
Actually, he had cut it closer than he’d intended. He had meant to miss the British commander entirely, instead of shooting his hat off his head.
“What in blazes do you expect?” Preacher demanded, not trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “I’m a good shot on dry land. I never tried to hit anything with a blasted ship’s deck jumpin’ around under me!”
That argument made sense. Sampson said grudgingly, “All right, all right. Just do your best.”
At that moment, the cannon at the British ship’s stern boomed again. One of the balls missed, but the other tore through the Calypso’s sails without striking the mast, which would have been disastrous.
“They’re gettin’ the range,” Sampson said. “Reload and make the blasted limeys hop!”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Preacher muttered under his breath, telling himself that he was already picking up the lingo. He didn’t know if he liked that or not.
The Calypso swung the other direction, bringing the port-side guns to bear. The little sloop’s maneuverability, in contrast to the larger ship’s lumbering progress through the water, came in handy. Rowland dashed across the deck and ordered the gunners to fire. Once again, flame spurted and deadly cannonballs pelted the merchantman. As far as Preacher could tell, none of the hits did any serious damage to the vessel, although he was sure some of the men on deck were killed or at least badly wounded.
While the echoes of that volley were still rolling across the waves, the lookout up in the crow’s nest called down, “Sails ho! More sails, Cap’n!”
Sampson cursed and yanked out his spyglass again. He squinted through the lens and his curses grew more vehement and sulphurous. “A couple of British frigates headed in this direction,” he said as he lowered the telescope. “They’ll be here before we’d have time to take that prize. We’ll have to break off the attack.”
Preacher kept his face impassive. He didn’t want Sampson to see how relieved he was by that news. The Calypso’s captain might order him to kill a few more British sailors, just out of spite.
That didn’t appear to occur to Sampson. He shouted orders for his men to break off the attack. They adjusted the sails, the steersman leaned hard on the tiller, and the Calypso swung far to starboard, heading south away from the British merchant ship and the Royal Navy frigates.
“They’ll never catch us,” Sampson said confidently. “I doubt they’ll even try. They’ll stop and render aid to that merchantman instead. But we’ll run south at full speed, just in case.”
“That’ll take us off our course for that island you were headed for, won’t it?” Preacher asked.
“Aye, but there’s no certain time we have to arrive there, as long as we deliver ye where you’re supposed to go.” Sampson eyed the mountain man. “And speakin’ of what’s in store for ye, I believe somethin’ was said about some lashes . . .”
“I just fought on your side,” Preacher said grimly. “You’re still gonna punish me for not wantin’ to get down on my knees?”
“I appreciate your efforts,” Sampson said, “even though ye didn’t actually kill any of the rascals the way I told you to.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Preacher. “It couldn’t be that ye were missin’ on purpose, now could it? Nobody is that good a marksman, to come as close as ye did and still not send any Englishers to hell!”
“I told you, I’m used to shootin’ on dry land.”
Sampson stuck out his hand. “Well, I’ll be havin’ that rifle back now, regardless o’ what just happened.”
Preacher hesitated, then glanced toward the sailor with the pistol, who raised the weapon and aimed it at his head. With a shrug, he handed the rifle to Sampson.
“The powder and shot, too,” the captain said.
Preacher had draped the rawhide thongs attached to the powder horn and shot pouch over his shoulder, as he normally would have. As he started to lift them over his head, he heard a soft footstep behind him. He started to turn, suddenly sensing a trap, but Abner Rowland moved too fast. The tattooed man swung some sort of bludgeon that cracked hard against Preacher’s skull and drove the mountain man off his feet, into a black void.
* * *
Regaining consciousness after being knocked out for the second time that day was even more unpleasant than the first time, Preacher discovered as awareness began to seep back into his brain. Pain thundered through his head with every beat of his pulse.
Gradually, he realized that his wrists were tied again, but they had been jerked above his head rather than behind his back. He was upright, leaning against a smooth, thick wooden pole of some sort. The Calypso’s mast, he told himself as his brain started forming coherent thoughts again. His captors had strung him up, just as they’d threatened to do.
They had removed his buckskin shirt, too. He felt the mast pressing against his bare chest and belly. His wrists were tied to the mast, and a rope had been p
assed around his waist as well to keep him motionless.
He had found himself in the hands of enemies many times before in his adventurous life, and he had learned not to let them know that he was awake until he’d had a chance to take stock of the situation. For that reason, he kept his eyes closed and his breathing regular. Let the pirates continue to believe he was still out cold.
He heard them moving around the ship, heard men’s voices calling out to each other. None of them sounded alarmed, so Preacher figured they had gotten away from the British frigates and were no longer in danger from the warships. He was about to open his eyes a tiny slit and take a look around when he heard heavy footsteps approaching him.
“I swear, I think ye hit him too hard with that be-layin’ pin, Abner.” That gravelly growl belonged to Captain Jabez Sampson.
“Naw, he’s still breathin’, Cap’n,” Rowland said. “Just look at him. You can see he’s breathin’.”
“Aye. Wake him up, then.”
That was all the warning Preacher got before what felt like a bucketful of water was poured over his head. No point in pretending anymore. He jerked his head and sputtered and tried to shake the water out of his eyes. Moving around like that caused fresh explosions of pain inside his skull, but they subsided after a few moments.
He twisted his neck to look over his right shoulder as best he could, which wasn’t easy considering the way he was tied to the mast. From the corner of his eye, though, he saw Sampson and Rowland standing there looking satisfied with themselves.
Elsewhere along the deck, other members of the Calypso’s crew stood watching, some of them with avid interest on their faces. However, a few others appeared uncomfortable, as if they weren’t looking forward to what was about to happen. Preacher noticed the redheaded, freckle-faced youngster beside whom he had been working earlier. The young man shuffled his feet and looked away as if he couldn’t bear to watch.
Sampson moved so that Preacher could see him easier and said, “I told ye, discipline must be maintained on board ship, and in order to do that, once ye’ve transgressed and a punishment has been levied, it has to be carried out, no matter what else happens in between. Accordin’ to the law and traditions of the sea, ye’ll now receive five lashes with the cat-o’-nine-tails.”
“I still think a dozen would be better,” Rowland said. “Maybe even twenty.”
“’Tis not your decision to make, Mr. Rowland,” Sampson snapped. “And if you continue to question my orders, it may well be you there on the mast before much longer.”
Rowland grimaced but said, “I’m not questionin’ your orders, Cap’n. I’m sure you’re right.”
“Very well, then. Ye requested that ye be allowed to carry out Preacher’s punishment, and I’m agreeable to that.” Sampson gestured with a pudgy hand. “Have to.”
Then, as he stepped back, he bellowed, “Attention on deck! All hands! Discipline bein’ carried out!”
He wanted everyone to see this, Preacher thought, so they would know what would happen to them if they failed to obey orders instantly and without question.
The bonds around his wrists and waist were brutally tight. Preacher might have been able to work his way loose from them, but it would take hours to do that and he was out of time. He set his jaw as he heard Rowland step behind him. Something swished through the air, and then strands of fire slashed across his back at an angle.
That was what it felt like, anyway. His reflexes would have forced him to jerk away from the agony, but tied to the mast as he was, he had no place to go. Despite the pain, his jaw didn’t unclench, and he didn’t make a sound.
Rowland brought the second stroke back from the other direction, angling it opposite to the first lash so as to scourge more of Preacher’s back. Preacher drew in a sharp breath, but that was his only reaction.
The third stroke made his head tip back a little. He felt the cords in his neck standing out as he fought not to yell. Rowland grunted with effort as he brought the cat-o’-nine-tails across Preacher’s back for the fourth time. Preacher’s lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace, but still no sound escaped from them.
Rowland paused then and leaned closer to Preacher, who felt the man’s hot breath on his neck as Rowland whispered, “This is just the beginnin’, you . . .” He added several obscenities, then repeated, “Just the beginnin’ of how you’re gonna suffer.”
“Get on with it,” Sampson said. “One more.”
“Aye,” Rowland replied, straightening. Preacher couldn’t see the tattooed man, but he could imagine Rowland drawing his arm back and setting himself to put as much force as he possibly could behind this last stroke. The cat-o’-nine-tails whistled through the air—
“Aaarrgghh—” The groan came from Preacher before he could choke it off.
Sampson and Rowland laughed, and he heard several other members of the crew chuckling, as well.
Then Sampson said, “Cut him down.” A knife sawed at the bonds, and as they came loose, Preacher slumped to the deck, unable to stand. One of the sailors, following Sampson’s command, sloshed a bucket of seawater over his back. The salt water made it feel as if all the skin was being peeled off his back.
“Somebody take care of him,” Sampson said. “You there. Tyler. You’re in charge of him. Try anything funny, and ye’ll wind up on the mast, too.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” a reedy voice answered. A moment later, bony knees clad in ragged breeches hit the deck beside Preacher. Breathing hard, the mountain man turned his head enough to see the scrawny, redheaded youngster leaning over him.
“You’ll be all right,” Tyler said, but he sounded like he wasn’t sure if he meant it.
“I . . . sure will . . . be,” Preacher grated. He was completely sincere about it, too. He had even more of a score to settle with Jabez Sampson and Abner Rowland, and the hate blazing inside him would keep him alive until he did.
CHAPTER 28
Crew members on the Calypso slept on the deck or in hammocks strung from the mast to the railings. With his back in the shape it was, Preacher had to lie on his belly, so Tyler helped him stand up and then stagger over to a spot on the deck where they would be out of the way.
Once Preacher had stretched out again, Tyler said, “I’ll get some grease from the cook and put it on your back. That’ll help a little.”
“Much obliged to you, son.” Preacher’s voice was strong again. His back still hurt quite a bit, but the pain had receded enough that he could ignore it, put it out of his head, and concentrate on speculating about his course of action. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be exiled to a sugar plantation on some godforsaken island where he would no doubt die from overwork and the miserable climate, all because Simone LeCarde had agreed to protect a couple of cheap crooks like Edmund Cornelius and Lucy Tarleton.
Tyler’s footsteps pattered off. Preacher lay there, listening to the waves splashing, the sails booming, and the sounds of men going about their jobs on the ship. He thought about the ones who had looked unhappy about the flogging they were forced to witness, and he wondered if he might find allies among them.
After a few minutes, Tyler returned and knelt beside Preacher. “This is liable to hurt, Mr. Preacher, but it’ll help these cuts heal up faster.”
“Just Preacher,” the mountain man said, as he always did in such circumstances. “No mister.”
“All right, Preacher. Grit your teeth.”
“Just get it done, boy.”
Preacher had to follow Tyler’s advice and clench his teeth tighter together as the young man gently rubbed grease onto the injuries. The process took a few minutes. When it was done, Preacher lay there, breathing hard from the pain and letting it subside.
“I think I can find a clean shirt for you, once the bleeding stops,” Tyler said. “Well, maybe not completely clean, but not too dirty. It’s pretty late in the day, so Cap’n Sampson probably won’t expect you to do any more work today, but first thing in the morning he’ll want you
to be on duty again.”
“How’d a young fella like you wind up bein’ part of a pirate crew?” Preacher asked, keeping his voice quiet enough so the conversation wouldn’t be overheard among the usual hubbub of shipboard life. “No offense, but you don’t seem like what I think of as a buccaneer.”
“I’m not. Not really. When I signed on, I thought the Calypso was just a trading vessel. That’s what she’s supposed to be. From what I’ve heard, that Mr. LeCarde who owns her has several other trading ships that sail back and forth between New Orleans and the Caribbean.” Tyler paused. “I didn’t find out until later that we were going to be seizing other ships and stealing their cargoes and raiding towns on the islands and . . . and hurting people . . .” His voice choked off.
Preacher waited, and after a moment, Tyler went on. “I guess even if I’d known, I would have signed on anyway.” His voice was dull with despair. “It’s better being a pirate than starving to death, after all. That’s what was going to happen if I stayed in New Orleans. I don’t have any family, and the people who took me in after my folks died were no good. At least here on the ship, the food’s decent, and as long as you work hard and do everything Cap’n Sampson says, you’re not mistreated. I know you probably have a hard time believing that right now, but it’s true. Nobody gets flogged as long as they do their work and obey orders.”
“That’s the part I’ve never been very good at,” Preacher said. “Followin’ orders.”
“You’d learn if you stayed on this ship.” Tyler shrugged. “But from what I heard the cap’n and Mr. Rowland saying, you won’t be aboard all that long. We’ll reach San Patricio in four or five days, and you’ll be getting off there.”
“And left at that sugar plantation,” Preacher muttered. “Can’t say as I like the sound of that.”
Preacher's Frenzy Page 17