Christine Dorsey - [Sea 01] (21 page)

His eyes blurry from saltpeter and sulphur, Jack peered through the rising smoke to the strip of water between the Spanish vessel and the waving green swamp grass of shore. The channel was deep there, cut in the sand by hundreds of years of tides, but it was narrow, thanks to the length of the blockader.

And there was hell to pay getting to that passageway to the sea.

They were well in range now. The moment after Jack realized that, he felt the
Sea Hawk
lurch as the first shot exploded on deck. Grabbing a bucket, Jack rushed toward the spot and along with a tar managed to smother the flames. But there was no respite as another, then another volley hit the pirate ship.

“Fight! Fight!” Jack roared encouragement to his men as they sailed through the rain of shells and fire. His throat burned, and his voice came out as a rasp; but he continued to dive from one gun to the next, sponging here, touching the spark to powder there.

They didn’t bother to aim. The
Sea Hawk
and the Spanish ship were nearly side by side now, shooting point-blank at each other. Easily within small arms range.

Jack emptied his pistol but didn’t take the time to reload. Sharpshooters in the shrouds were keeping the Spaniards busy, giving Jack’s men a chance they wouldn’t have otherwise.

They were slipping through, had survived the worst of the frontal attack. Though the
Sea Hawk
continued to fire, the stable Spanish ship could do almost nothing. She was without stern ports to shoot cannon through. It was like the eye of a hurricane, this momentary reprieve from the deadly fire. Jack allowed himself to think that they might, perhaps make it, when the
Sea
Hawk
listed violently to stern. Jack’s first reaction was that they were sinking. But then he realized the ship had hit the shore.

“Phin! Phin!” Jack hurdled over one of his men who lay bleeding and screaming in pain near the main mast, and raced across the slippery deck toward the ladder. Yanking himself up, Jack cursed violently when he saw his quartermaster draped over the wheel.

But there was no time for sentimentality. Untangling Phin, Jack slid him to the deck and put all his strength into straightening the wheel.

Jack’s muscles, soot-covered and slick with sweat, strained as he worked. The ship groaned and complained, skimming along the mud-lined shore. Then, with one giant, wind-powered lurch, she broke free. Settling back into the deeper channel, the Sea Hawk righted and surged toward the sea.

Within seconds the
Sea Hawk
skimmed into range of the Spaniard’s leeward guns. But the angle was not as deadly, and by this time the pirates had maneuverability and the rush of water to the open sea on their side.

A rousing cheer echoed through the rigging. They’d made it! They’d squirmed out of the trap and now raced into the white-tipped waves off the coast. Jack cast a glance behind to where the crew on the Spanish vessel scurried about unfurling the sails. They still posed a threat, but Jack didn’t think a very serious one. By the time they raised anchor and maneuvered the ship out of the creek, night would blanket the sea. By morn, Jack intended to be far from here.

As soon as the pirates quieted, Jack yelled down to the main deck for someone to come help Phin. The quartermaster rolled to his side, moaning, and Jack saw blood puddling beneath his body. “Someone get up here. Now!” Jack needed to keep his hands and mind on steering the ship, but if someone didn’t get here quickly, he’d—

“What is it, Captain? Are you hurt?” Miranda pulled herself up the ladder, gasping when she saw Phin. Gathering up, her skirts, she rushed over to where he lay. “What happened to him?” Carefully she turned the older man over.

“He’s been hit. By splintering wood, I think. What the hell are you doing up here?”

Miranda ignored the last as she settled the old man on his back. “Yes, here it is,” she said, gently pulling aside the torn and bloody shirt. “Phin, can you hear me?”

Phin’s eyes slitted open, but the dark irises were clouded with pain. “Your ladyship,” he murmured before biting his bottom lip.

“I know it hurts, Phin. But you’ll be all right. I promise.” Miranda lifted her skirt and tore off a strip of petticoat, hoping this was a promise she could keep. There were several jagged slivers of wood, spar she assumed, protruding from Phin’s shoulder and chest. She couldn’t tell how deeply they pierced into the flesh, but as she cautiously tugged on one, fresh blood spurted out.

Mopping at the wound with her petticoat, Miranda found a better handhold on the splinter and pulled harder. Phin moaned before losing consciousness. With a final yank, Miranda removed the wood, and quickly plugged the gaping hole with more ruffled linen.

“God’s blood, what’s going on?” Jack strained to see around Miranda’s slim back to what she was doing to his friend. “Where’s the surgeon?”

“Dead, I’m afraid.” Miranda glanced over her shoulder. The captain appeared truly shaken by her remark. Miranda realized she should have told him more gently. But she really didn’t have time.

“Don’t tell me you know doctoring, too?” The woman seemed to have an unlimited font of knowledge.

“Not exactly.” Miranda gripped another shard of wood. “But I do know something of anatomy.”

By the time she’d removed all the wood and wrapped Phin in more petticoat, King had arrived on the quarterdeck. He took the wheel as he gave the rundown of losses to Jack. Two dead, including, as Miranda said, the surgeon. Actually he hadn’t been a physician at all, but a carpenter. But he was the closest thing the
Sea Hawk
had to a man of medicine. Little it mattered since he was usually only called on to saw off shattered arms and legs. And he’d been a good sailor, as had Charley Stone, the other casualty.

Jack supposed with the odds against them as they were, losing only two men was the best he could expect. But he still didn’t feel good about it. His crew’s casualties only added to the hatred for the Spanish that consumed him.

And the number of dead could increase. Phin lay on the sun-bleached deck, as white as the canvas that billowed overhead. Jack swallowed. “Is he... ?”

“I think he’ll be all right.” Miranda wiped bloody hands down her gown. It was then that Jack noticed her... really noticed her.

“My God! Are you hurt?”

“No, why?”

“You’re covered with blood and—”

“Oh.” Miranda stared down at her dress. “It’s not mine. I’ve been helping out. Several other men are wounded.”

“You mean Phin isn’t the first you’ve worked on?” Jack’s voice was deceptively calm.

“Why, no. I’ve bandaged up Ed Snively and—”

“But we’ve only been out of the Spaniards’ range a few minutes. Each word grew louder as realization hit Jack. “Do you mean to tell me you were on deck when fighting was going on?”

Miranda simply stood, her eyes dark and as large as saucers, her mouth shut. But it was admission enough for Jack.

“God’s blood, woman!” He raked his hands back through his tangle of golden hair. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”

“The same as happened to Charley Stone, I imagine,” she answered quietly.

“You’re damn right the same that happened to him, or to Doc, or Ed.”

“Or Phin,” Miranda continued for him. “Don’t you think we should carry him below deck?”

“Hell, yes, I think we should carry him below deck.” Jack stood, hands on hips, and glared at Miranda. Admittedly he hadn’t thought of her during the battle—there hadn’t been time. But just before the fighting when his mind had slipped to thoughts of her, he’d imagined her relatively safe in his cabin.

Certainly not on the blood-slick deck exposing herself to the shelling. Thinking of it now, he could barely keep from throttling her.

“Uh, Captain, sir. I can take Phin below if you’d rather.”

Jack took a deep breath and looked back at King. “Nay, I’ll do it. You—” Jack pointed a long finger at Miranda— “come with me.”

“I think I should see to the other men first.” She moved across the quarterdeck. “Some of them might need—”

“Miranda!”

Barely restrained anger in his voice made Miranda pause on the top rung of the ladder. She flung back her hair and took a deep breath. “I shall come below soon. After I’ve seen to the other men.” With that, she disappeared over the quarterdeck’s side.

And Jack continued to stare, open-mouthed, at the spot where she’d been.

“She’s a mind of her own, that one.”

Jack clamped his mouth shut and turned toward King. “That woman needs to be taught a lesson in following orders.”

King shrugged, the muscles rippling under his ebony skin. “One of you does.”

“And just what the hell do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.” King’s grin gleamed white against his skin. “It’s just, I think you feared for her safety and that made you give orders she wasn’t likely to follow.”

“You’re damn right I feared for her safety.” Jack bent over and carefully scooped Phin in his arms. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t?” he mumbled as he headed down the ladder.

Set up in the afterhold, the surgery consisted of planks placed on smooth casks. There was one man, a boy actually, sitting on the edge of the board, his skinny legs dangling over the side. When Jack entered the area carrying Phin, Miranda was already there. She was trying to get the boy to lie back down.

“This will be a lot easier, Nat, if you just let me see what the problem is.”

“Ain’t got no problem, and I sure as hell don’t want ye lookin’ at me.”

“Nat!” Jack settled Phin into a berth that was made up for the wounded and rounded on the boy. “Watch your language in front of a lady.”

“Aw, Cap’n. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Perhaps not, however... What are you smiling about?”

Miranda tried to sober her expression. How could the pirate captain, of all people, find fault with anyone’s language. He nearly singed her ears whenever they were together. But she wasn’t going to point that out, especially not in front of the boy.

“I’m not smiling about anything. I simply wish to take a look at this lad’s wound.”

Hell if he didn’t know a smile when he saw one... especially one of Miranda Chadwick’s, but Jack decided not to pursue it. “Show her your wound, Nat.” After giving the order, Jack strode over to where Phin was struggling to sit up. “How are you feeling, you old sea dog?” Jack tried not to think about how panicked he’d felt when he saw Phin lying bloodied and pale on the deck.

“How in the hell ye think I’m feelin’? Damn Spaniards.”

“Well, we got by them.” Jack twisted around when the low rumble of voices near the makeshift table grew louder. “What’s going on over there?” Nat was on his feet, blood running down his leg, and Miranda had hold of his arm. Something that Nat was obviously trying to change. He tried jerking his elbow, but the woman held firm.

“What in the hell is it?” Jack clamped his hand over Nat’s shoulder.

“I don’t want her lookin’ at me, Cap’n,” the boy pleaded, his narrow blue eyes looking up at Jack imploringly.

“But he’s wounded and bleeding,” Miranda countered logically.

Jack studied each in turn, then let out his breath. “She’s right, Nat. Now just let her—”

“I ain’t! I ain’t gonna do it. And ye can’t make me.”

“The hell I can’t.” Jack had had enough insubordination for one day. True, on a pirate ship the captain was not an absolute ruler, but he sure had say over a cabin boy and most certainly over a captive. Yet in the space of less than an hour both had defied him. Well, he’d put an end to it.

Grabbing the boy under his arms Jack lifted him, ready to slam him down on the plank. Nat’s fervent whisper stopped him. “But, Cap’n. My cut. It’s on a part o’ me body ain’t right for no woman to see, leastways not no lady.”

“Oh, but that’s ridiculous,” Miranda said. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen—”

“Enough!” Lord help him, what was she about to say? Would she actually admit to their lovemaking just so that she could care for the boy? The possibility seemed too likely. “You!” He pointed to Miranda, who seemed taken aback by his tone. “Look after Phin. He’s awake.”

“But, Captain Blackstone—”

“I’ll see to the lad.” Jack waited till Miranda whirled around, then he motioned for Nat to drop his baggy breeches.

“It ain’t hardly more’n a scratch, Cap’n. Don’t know why her ladyship was gettin’ so bothered ‘bout it.”

“It must be some woman thing,” Jack mumbled under his breath. But he was wishing back his words when he saw the boy’s bloody hip. “Looks like a bit more than a scratch to me.”

Jack cleaned up the cut as best he could ... which with his lack of experience, wasn’t very well. But when Jack suggested Miranda should look at it after all, Nat made such a fuss that he let it go. When he finished, Jack told Nat to get some rest; then he checked on Phin, who was sleeping, and went above deck. Miranda, he noticed, was no longer in the surgery.

Some of the pirate crew were busy “fishing” damaged spars. They splinted them with oars, then lashed the whole with hemp. Others were swabbing the decks, cleaning the blood and sand away. On the quarterdeck, wrapped in canvas, were two bodies.

“Thought we’d wait for ye to give them a proper burial.” Scar came up behind Jack and motioned toward the bodies. “Don’t wanta wait too long though, ‘cause a the stench.”

The funeral was brief, with Jack and several of the men saying a few words, and then the bodies slipped slowly into the indigo sea.

“Guess we gotta be glad weren’t more kilt than them two.”

The fact that he’d thought the same thing earlier didn’t make Jack feel better about Scar’s words. He didn’t answer—only stared out over the moon’s reflection shattered over the myriad waves. One day, he supposed, they’d bury him at sea—that was if a hangman’s noose didn’t get him first. Jack rubbed at his neck.

“How’s ol’ Phin doin’?”

Jack forced his attention from the watery grave. “I think he’s going to be all right. Probably too ornery to die.”

Scar chortled, running his finger down the crest of his scar. “Ye got the right a it there. Course, havin’ her ladyship on board ta help was a blessin’.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it that.”