Master of My Dreams (5 page)

“Sign aboard what?”

“Why, this boa—I mean, ship, o’ course.”

He stared at her as if she’d gone mad. “Ye
mean, ye actually want to
volunteer
?”

“Isn’t that the way it’s done?”

The Scotsman glanced at his companions, took
off his cap, and scratched his head. No one spoke, until at last,
the sinister-looking man in the officer’s uniform cleared his
throat. He moved with silken grace and had cold, sullen eyes
containing about as much warmth as the bitter wind that cuffed the
Solent into a mass of frothy white horses. “I’m Lieutenant Russell
Rhodes. You want to sign aboard, eh?” He seized her canvas bag and,
heedless of her frightened gasp, tossed it to the Scotsman before
Deirdre had time to protest. “Well, then, let’s see if you qualify.
Climb that mast and don’t stop till you reach the maintop— using
the futtocks, of course.”

Futtocks?
It was all she could do not
to reach for her notes to see what a “futtocks” was. “But . . . but
don’t I have to sign somethin’?”

“Just get your arse up that pole!” roared the
pirate, stepping forward and brandishing his cutlass.

“Aye, that’s all the signing we’ll ask of
ye!” snarled a big, dirty hulk of a man covered with a mat of brown
hair. His odor alone was bad enough to send Deirdre scurrying to
the mast

“Jesus,” said the Scotsman, slapping his
broad forehead. “The tyke don’t even know how to climb it!”

“Go to the gangway and use the shrouds, ye
idiot!”

The pirate waved his cutlass in her face.
Digging her nails into her palms, Deirdre looked up at the tall
mast and choked back her fear, for it seemed to hold up the clouds
themselves. Then the Scotsman shoved her toward the network of
black, tarry ropes that ran skyward like narrow, tapering pyramids
from the side of the ship.

“
Those
are the shrouds,” he said
gently. “Use them like a ladder. Ye ken, laddie?”

Deirdre pressed her hand to her shirt,
seeking the comfort of the cross. Then, biting her lip, she nodded,
grasped the tarry, ice-coated shrouds, and began to ascend. She
climbed one step. Two. Three steps up, she looked down and,
shivering, found the tip of the pirate’s cutlass two inches from
her nose. He was grinning evilly.

There was no going back. Not now.

Whimpering and nearing hysteria, Deirdre took
a fourth step, clinging to the harsh ropes like a treed cat afraid
to move. The deck was only a few feet beneath her, but she was off
its solidness now, and she could feel the sway and movement of the
big ship right through her hands and up through the soles of her
feet.

“I can just see him in a storm,” muttered the
Scotsman, shaking his head.

“Hell, I can see him when our bloody Lord and
Master makes us do sail drills.”

“
Sail drills?
He wouldn’t!”

“You doubt him?”

“No captain’s
ever
made us do sail
drills!”

“Well, from what
I’ve
heard, doona put
it past this one.” The Scotsman sneezed, pulled out an enormous
handkerchief, and waved it at Deirdre. Raising his voice, he
yelled, “ ’Tis climbin’ higher than that ye’ll have tae be, laddie,
if ye want tae reach the maintop!”

“I’m . . . catchin’ my breath.”

The foul-smelling one stepped forward. “You
ain’t gonna have
time
to catch yer breath when you ’ave a
storm howling up your arse and the bosun’s mates laying the rattans
across yer back! Now,
climb
!”

Deirdre pressed her face against the
ice-encrusted ropes, smelling the pungent aroma of tar and sea
salt. She was terrified. One slip, and she would fall into the
water so far below. One slip, and she would be dead. Already the
chill wind was singing in her ears, and she had a long way to go
before she reached what had to be the maintop.
Oh, God,
she
thought, digging her frozen fingers into the shrouds and fighting
dizziness.
Oh, God, please help me
. . . She took a deep
breath and pulled herself up a little farther.

But as she took another step, then another,
she realized that the crew’s attention was no longer on her. A boat
was coming from shore, a feather of white at its bow, a
militaristic figure dressed in blue and white in its stern.

Every man on the deck below had turned to
stare at it.

“Christ, here comes the bloody captain
now!”

“Quick, look busy!”

Deirdre flattened herself against the
shrouds, shut her eyes, and swallowed the thick lump of dread. Oh,
God. Oh, dear God. Now what? Stay here and be seen? Go back down
and face the captain?

Or—her fingers bit into the shrouds as the
ship swayed slightly, sickeningly, beneath her—go up?

She made up her mind, for there was no time
to do otherwise. Desperate with terror, Deirdre tilted back her
head, scurried skyward, and didn’t stop until she reached the hole
that led into the maintop. She hauled herself through it and lay
there on the platform, too terrified to look down.

And so it was that she missed Captain
Christian Lord’s arrival.

###

“Blind me, what the deuced hell is
wrong
with these people, Hendricks?!” Christian snapped, his
gray eyes hard with fury as he stared up at the gently curved
tumblehome of
Bold Marauder
’s black-and-gold hull. “This is
a king’s ship, damn them, and as such they should bloody well know
the meaning of
respect
!”

“Aye, sir,” the dark-skinned Jamaican bosun
said, a bit ashamed that he’d been away from the frigate when his
friend and captain had sent the request for a gig. Had he been
aboard, he would never have allowed such a thing to happen. Rico
Hendricks, a former slave, had been with Christian since the
captain’s days as a midshipman, when the young boy-officer had
rescued him from the gallows after Rico’s involvement in a scheme
to overthrow his cruel master in Jamaica. Christian had changed
little over the years in
that
respect, Rico thought as he
took the squirming, wet dog from his captain’s arms. He might be
harder, he might be harsher, he might be a hell of a lot sadder,
but he still had a soft spot for the unfortunate and the
abused.

And swift and fitting justice for the kind of
pranks the new crew was up to.

Rico had been ashore, procuring some spare
cordage, when he’d found Christian stalking the quay in a towering
rage. From the interactions
he’d
had with the officers and
crew of HMS
Bold Marauder,
Rico knew his captain was going
to have his hands full with this bunch. Not only had his request
for a gig been blatantly ignored, there was no one at the entry
port to welcome him aboard his new command. And for a man who
detested
any
slur on the king’s Navy—be it a sloppy uniform,
ungentlemanly behavior on the part of an officer, or any breach in
discipline that would weaken the chain that was the Service—the
simple denial of a welcoming party was a declaration of war on the
part of a crew who had yet to learn just
whom
they were
dealing with.

It was not a good beginning.

The boat’s crew, a sloppy, sorry bunch of
malcontents who looked like dregs out of Newgate, made several
halfhearted attempts to hook onto
Bold Marauder's
main
chains before finally succeeding. Furious, Christian looked up,
still expecting the customary shrill of pipes, the smart rectangle
of marines presenting arms, the roll of a drum, and the organized
fanfare a ship was supposed to give its captain.

But there was nothing. Not even a soul at the
entry port.

Fuming, he scaled the ship’s side, vowing
that such nonsense would not be tolerated under
his
command.
Behind him came Rico, cradling the captain’s new pet in the crook
of his arm, grinning to himself, and anticipating spectacular
fireworks. At last, Christian reached the entry port and stepped
smartly onto the frigate’s deck.

There was no one there to receive him, just a
seaman lounging against the bulwarks and watching him, picking his
teeth with the blade of his knife.

Christian saluted the quarterdeck with tight
efficiency, respectfully doffing his hat. Then he slammed it back
atop his head and marched past a row of mutinous-looking men who
sneered at him and spat on the deck in disdain after his passing.
Straight up the ladder to the great, double-spoked wheel he went,
his eyes blazing.

A seaman stood at the rail nearby, with a
licey-looking mat of black hair and a beard that reached to his
waist. He gave Christian an insolent glance. Then he went right on
with what he was doing—nonchalantly carving his initials into the
gunwale with a knife that could have skewered a cow from one end to
another.

Without breaking stride, Christian reached
out, spun him around, and, grabbing the man by the unsightly black
growth that sprouted from his jaw, yanked him forward.

“Your name, sailor!”

“Arthur Teach,” the seaman sneered . . .
sir
.”

“Well, Mr. Teach, fetch your first lieutenant
and bring him to me.”

“Don’t know where he is.”

“Then find him, you devilish bit of rabble!
My patience has already been sorely tested and I warn you, the
consequences of its being lost will not be pleasant for you or
anyone else!” He yanked Teach forward by the beard until their eyes
were inches apart, and snatched the knife from his hand.
“Furthermore, I shall abide no defacing of property that doesn’t
belong to you, and I insist on a clean-shaven crew. Do I make
myself clear?”

Teach made a rude gesture, tried to turn
away—and had his neck nearly broken as the captain, still holding
him by the beard, jerked his head around and hacked the evil growth
off with one swoop of his own knife. Then he flung both the weapon
and the chunk of beard to the deck, his eyes hard as he stared up
into those of the stunned Teach.

"Now
do I make myself clear?”

Teach stood gaping, his mouth opening and
closing, his hands slowly coming up to feel his jaw. His face went
white with shock, then red with fury, and Christian heard the
hushed whispers from the group that was now gathering near the
mainmast.

“Jee-zus, he just hacked off Teach’s
beard!”

“
Holy Moses,”
another breathed.

Christian seized the seaman’s sleeve and
roughly shoved him forward. “I gave you an order to bring me your
first lieutenant. Now,
move
!”

Teach staggered away, dazed, his hands
cupping his shorn jaw. Out of the corner of his eye Christian saw
Hendricks, still holding the little spaniel and watching him
carefully, ready as always to step in and assist him should the
need arise. But Christian was well able to take care of himself. He
watched the men rushing up from below, gathering by the boats in
the ship’s waist, talking excitedly and staring at him in shock,
disbelief, and sullen, open rebellion.

But he was in no mood to put up with further
nonsense. “Now that I have your undivided attention,” he began,
raking them with his gray stare, “allow me to clarify something for
you. This is a king’s ship and, as such, is part of the most
powerful Navy in the world. She was designed by a colleague of
mine, a naval architect who is a master at his trade, and therefore
should wear her name with pride, not disgrace. I intend to give her
back that pride, and I intend to start here and now. Henceforth,
you shall behave as seamen in the service of your king, honoring
both this ship and her officers by showing them
respect
!”

The crew eyed him balefully. Someone spat.
Someone else belched.

“The next time I come aboard this ship, I
expect a proper and ceremonious welcome. You will pipe me aboard
and you will stand at attention when I come through the entry port.
As it should be a while before I have to do so again, you should
have plenty of time in which to practice this simple ritual.”
Drawing his sword, he clasped his hands over the hilt and rested
the point against the deck, his smile cold and forbidding. “Is that
understood?”

Silence.

The wind played with his queue, was cold
against his cheeks. “After I read myself in, we will weigh anchor
and commence our journey to the American colonies, where
w
e
will lend our assistance to Vice Admiral Sir Geoffrey Lloyd in
easing the mounting tension in Boston.” He paused, feeling their
hatred crackling through the air like lightning in an electrical
storm. “Do I make myself clear?”

No one moved.

“Splendid!” He threw back his shoulders, his
bright tone belying his cold, hard eyes. “I see that we have
already arrived at an understanding. And I expect that we will
understand
each other even better by the end of this voyage.
Should you demonstrate obedience and loyalty, you will find me a
most agreeable commander. In the meantime, I warn you—do not test
my patience, for you’ll find it damnably short.”

The crew, all one hundred and fifty of them,
stared at him, their eyes filled with loathing.

“Any questions?”

No one moved. The seaman who’d spat did so
again.

Without pause, Christian ordered, “Get a
bucket and clean that up.”

The seaman stared at him.

Christian locked gazes with him. “I’ll not
repeat myself.”

The offender looked to Teach as though for
permission—or, more likely, permission for refusal—and, finding no
response from that quarter, walked slowly to one of the buckets
lying near the bulwarks.

“Lively, now!” Christian prompted.

Every eye was on the seaman as, scowling, he
picked up the bucket and swaggered back to his former spot. With a
curse, he let it drop to the deck. Dirty water splashed out and
made a pool at his feet.