Authors: Christine Dorsey
Then she did what she always did when faced
with a problem. Anne began to sort and straighten.
By the time she stood on tiptoe to check
herself in the mirror, the captain’s cabin was as clean and
organized as she could make it. His clean or nearly clean clothes
were folded and stacked in sea chests, the dirty ones on a pile
waiting for water and scrub brush. She didn’t care if he liked it
or not. It was done.
Anne twisted her face, making certain she was
thoroughly covered with soot from the lantern. Her hair was
covered, the brimless hat pulled low over her forehead, and she’d
shrugged back into the heavy coat. She looked like the boy she
pretended to be.
And she was going on deck.
Joe was the first to notice her when she
pushed herself through the hatch. He was lounging on deck, his back
to the railing, his eyes wary. The bruises on his face had faded to
a purplish green, but the swelling was gone. His expression didn’t
change as he watched Anne walk toward him.
“Joe,” she said in greeting, then slid down
beside him.
He didn’t say a word, but Anne thought she
noticed a slight shrinking away as her coat brushed against his
arm. She decided to try again. “Your face is looking better. Does
it still hurt?”
He merely shrugged, an offhand motion that
could mean anything.
“What’s wrong, Joe?”
“Where ye been, Andy?”
Anne hoped her blush didn’t shine through the
layers of dirt. “The captain had some work for me to do.” She
folded up her knees, wrapping her arms about them and turning her
head so she could watch his profile. “I finished cleaning up his
cabin.” No response. “’Twas a real mess. Clothes everywhere and
books...”
When there was still no reaction from Joe,
Anne reached out toward him. She didn’t imagine his recoil this
time. Anne let her hand drop to the deck. “Joe, what’s wrong?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong.” He pushed to his
feet.
“Captain MacQuaid locked Stymie in the hold
because of what he did to you,” Anne offered. She cupped her hands,
shading her eyes from the blinding sunlight.
She couldn’t see his expression, but imagined
it was as flat as his voice. “Won’t help,” he mumbled before
ambling off.
“What do you mean...? Joe?” Anne stood up but
before she could follow her friend a hand clamped around her arm.
“Well, if it isn’t
Andy
,” a voice hissed in her ear.
“Imagine my surprise when I glanced down from the quarterdeck to
see ye here.” Jamie effectively turned her toward the hatch as he
spoke. “I thought ye were to stay below.”
“I wanted some fresh air.” Anne tried digging
in her heels but it was no use.
“Well, you’ve had it.” Jamie stopped near the
gaping hole that led below. “Now can ye find your way back or must
I escort ye?”
Anne jerked her arm from his grasp. “I know
the way,” she said, then softened her tone. “There’s something
wrong with Joe.”
“No doubt. He was pummeled pretty bad.”
Anne turned to face him. “I think it may be
something beyond that. He won’t even talk to me.”
“One can hardly blame him for that.”
Anne’s lips thinned when she noticed the
captain’s grin. “I’m afraid this may be my fault.”
“You can’t be everyone’s guardian.” The words
were gentle. “You’re not to blame if Joe wandered off and
aggravated Stymie.”
“But you don’t understand. Joe and I were
watching him, because of what I heard about the mutiny.”
“What
you
heard? I thought it was Joe
who... Never mind. Get down to my cabin.”
“But—”
“I shall be down directly.” The captain
turned and walked away, leaving Anne little else to do, but follow
his orders. She had no more than settled in the chair when he
entered. Anne knew he noticed the cabin, but he said nothing as he
turned and locked the door.
When he faced her again, his arms crossed
over his wide, sun-burnished flesh, his expression was unreadable.
“Explain yourself,” was all he said.
Anne shrugged. “It’s simple. It was I, not
Joe, who overheard Stymie and his...” she hesitated, then used the
words “friends” in place of anything more appropriate. “They spoke
of taking over the ship.”
“And?” His brow quirked.
“And what?” Anne paced toward the window, a
much easier task without the litter of clothing and books on the
floor.
“Is that all they said?” The captain’s voice
was tinged with annoyance.
“They don’t like you,” Anne tossed over her
shoulder, then decided it only fair she explain. “Stymie has them
convinced you’re leading them on a wild-goose chase. He said the
only way to stop you was to seize the weapons and eliminate you.” A
shiver ran down her spine as his crystalline eyes focused on her
face. The window seemed a safer place to look. But the sea outside
the grimy leaden panes was so near the color of his gaze she shut
her own eyes when he began to speak.
“So, I have a possible mutiny on my
hands?”
“You didn’t know?” Anne whirled to face him.
“Joe explained.”
“He came to me with some jumbled story about
hearing Stymie and some men grumbling about wanting me gone.”
“And you didn’t believe him?”
“There didn’t seem much to believe or not
believe. Questioning him led nowhere. He stammered, couldn’t
remember where he was when he heard the men speaking.” Jamie dug
fingers through his wind-tossed hair. “Hell, if I concerned myself
with every pirate aboard who had a gripe, ’tis all I’d do.”
“Surely you knew how Stymie feels about you?
The way he defied you that morning when he grabbed me.”
“Stymie’s a mean son of a bitch. ’Tis a fool
who’d deny that. But pirates are not choirboys.”
“How can you stand being surrounded by
them?”
“I’m no choirboy either, Annie.”
She knew that only too well. Still, she
wouldn’t put him in the same category as some... Annie shook her
head. This was hardly the point. He agreed to find d’Porteau, and
she needed him. Needed him in control of the
Lost Cause
. “I
think you should toss the lot of them in the hold.”
“So now you’ve decided to help me run me
ship, have ye, Mistress Cornwall?” He spread his legs in challenge.
“’Tisn’t enough that ye take over me cabin and defy me.”
“The
Lost Cause
is yours to control.
Just as Styme is.”
“Stymie’s in the hold.”
“And his friends are free, to do as they
please.”
His eyes narrowed as he strode across the
room and back. He stopped near the desk, pounding the rough surface
with his fist. “We are all bound to do as we chose. It is the way
of freebooters. The reason we live the life we do.”
He pivoted to face her, his body alive with
raw strength. An errant sun spray fired the burnished streaks in
his hair, the twinkle of gold looped in his ear. Anne’s mouth went
dry. At that moment he looked every inch the wild, free pirate,
savage in his intensity, passionate in his independence. Untamed.
Powerful. Invincible.
She told herself he was human, and vulnerable
in ways she had yet to understand. And then he spoke again, opening
a tiny window to his soul.
“Do ye think I, any of us, could live under
the yoke of oppression? Nay, we live as we choose. Do as we choose.
And if there be those who disagree, they need only challenge me.
There are rules.” He jerked his head around, staring at a spot on
the floor near his bunk. It was empty now and he kicked at the dust
motes that swirled in his wake. “If you’d seen fit to leave things
where they lay, I’d have shown ye the articles we sail under.”
“Top drawer.”
Hands on narrow hips, he twisted to pierce
her with his stare.
“Your articles,” Anne explained. “I put them
in the top drawer of your desk.” When he said nothing, only
continued to glare, she rambled on, suddenly anxious to convince
him she’d done him a service. “The drawers were empty and the
floors so covered, you couldn’t possibly find a thing. No one
could. I only—”
“Interfered.” His rough voice lowered. “Tried
to control.”
“No.” Even to her the denial sounded hollow.
Anne sighed, trying to lessen the uneasy feeling she had that
perhaps he was right. Perhaps she should have left his cabin, his
life the way she found it. He wasn’t a man who needed or wanted her
constraints.
But there was more at stake than what he
wanted. And perhaps he followed his bloody articles, but she’d
heard the others. Heard the venom in their voices. They were not
planning a vote, a free-will choice. Theirs was to be violent...
deadly. And the man standing before her espousing noble ideals,
worthy of John Locke himself, was their target.
“They spoke of stealing the weapons and using
them against any crew member who defies them.”
She’d captured his attention and continued
before he could speak. “I heard them clearly. These were not men
willing to risk a democratic vote or even a fair challenge. They
are the kind of men you say you wish to be free of.” Anne realized
her voice had risen and tried to calm herself. “The kind of men who
would pummel a child like Joe.”
“Hell, Anne, I locked Stymie in the
hold.”
“But the others are just as dangerous. Don’t
you see?”
He didn’t answer and at first Anne thought he
was thinking, pondering what she said. But he cocked his head,
listening. The alarm sounded again and this time Anne heard it,
too.
“Sails ho!”
The cry started high above the deck in the
cross trees occupied by the lookout and spread throughout the
sloop. Jamie looked about, turning full circle before facing Anne,
a questioning expression on his face. He opened his mouth to ask,
but before he could she sprang forward, and knelt beside the
bunk.
“I put them away.” Wood scraped against wood
as she pulled the mahogany box from beneath the bed. Quicker than
she could Jamie reached down and threw open the box to reveal a
brace of pistols. He checked them both, then tucked them in his
waistband.
“What manner of ship do you think it is?”
Anne followed him to the door, only to have him jerk around to face
her.
“Stay here.”
“But—”
“Do ye understand me, Annie?”
Of course she understood. She wasn’t a dolt.
But she felt like one as she slowly nodded. He didn’t wait for
anything else as he bolted from the cabin.
The vessel was much closer than Jamie
expected.
When he reached the deck the schooner was no
more than two miles away and closing fast. Whoever was on watch
must have been asleep to miss giving the warning sooner. Jamie made
a mental note to keelhaul the bastard when the danger was past.
Lurching forward he took the ladder to the
quarterdeck three rungs at a time, and then rushed toward the
railing where Deacon stood, watching the fast approaching vessel
through the glass. “What do ye make of it?”
Jamie spared his silent quartermaster but a
glance as he grabbed for the brass cylinder. Squinting, Jamie swept
the spyglass over the cut of the hull, the sail, the black pennant
snapping from the yardarm. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
Despite the need for haste, Jamie lowered the glass slowly.
“D’Porteau.”
“’Tis what I thought.”
Those flatly spoken words spurred Jamie to
action. “Set more sail,” he yelled, his eyes flashing toward the
yards of canvas spread blindingly white in the sun. The
French
Whore
was approaching fast, to the windward side, leaving Jamie
little room to jockey for position.
“Hell and damnation!” Whoever had failed to
raise the alarm and made the
Lost Cause
so vulnerable would
pay. Jamie forced thoughts of what he’d do to the bastard from his
mind and he tried to decide the best course of action.
Retreat seemed unacceptable. Besides, he
didn’t know if it was possible. D’Porteau’s schooner was almost
upon them. And Jamie knew from unhappy experience its speed could
match the
Lost Cause
.
They would have to make a fight of it,
despite the positions. Jamie glanced down toward the tars. Most of
the men were huddled near the storehouse, surrounding Keena as he
passed out the muskets and pikes. They were a sound lot, for the
most part. Able to fight with the best of them.
“Look lively, lads!” he screamed down toward
the main deck. “We’ve a French whore to screw!”
A burst of coarse cheering exploded from the
wildly waving men, buoying Jamie’s spirits. He snatched up the
trumpet horn. “Topmen into the masts! Prepare to rake the
decks!”
Jamie didn’t have to worry about the cannons.
Keena would have the gunwales open and the black snouts peering
through the holes by now. Instead he turned his attention toward
the helmsman who was clutching the wheel, his ruddy face sweating
profusely.
“Hold her steady as ye can, Farley,” Jamie
said smoothly. Because of their leeward position they were forced
to take the more sluggish windward tack. The situation was not one
Jamie liked... or often found himself in. As soon as the
French
Whore
came astride the
Lost Cause
was vulnerable. If the
French gunners were accurate they could rake the sloop’s hull below
the waterline as the
Lost Cause
was heeled by the wind.
But Jamie tried not to think of that as his
gaze flicked from the compass setting to the Frenchman’s sail.
“Stay with her now, Farley,” Jamie warned. “Don’t let her cross our
stern.” The wheel turned beneath gnarled, sun-browned hands and
Jamie spread his legs against the swell. His gaze again flew to the
pursuing ship, his grin spreading as he slapped Farley on his bent
shoulder. “Ye be as good as they come, ye son of a bitch.”
Below them on the deck tars pivoted the
sails, hauling and releasing the sheet ropes and tack line. They
worked in perfect symmetry, beautiful to see, despite their
bare-chested, fierce appearance.