Ransome's Quest (29 page)

“In your vernacular, no. In mine, yes. Your husband’s ship”—Shaw pointed to the one off the larboard stern—“has already signaled me, demanding my surrender.” He turned a wicked smile on Julia. “And you know how I feel about demands.”

He took her by the shoulder and led her to the larboard gunwale. “Have a look, Mrs. Ransome. I would be remiss not to offer you the opportunity for one final moment to gaze upon your husband.”

She took the spyglass he held out toward her and pressed it to her eye. Though still too far away to be in accurate firing range, the ship came into closer view through the telescope. She scanned each face in the forecastle until—

An involuntary cry leaped from her throat. “William!”

He lowered his spyglass so she could see his face, pressed his left hand to his heart, and then raised the glass again. Julia pressed the telescope and her bound hands to her heart.

Shaw snatched the telescope away from her and called for Collier. “Take her to the bilge. Tie her to a post. And take her across the quarterdeck to the forecastle.”

Collier’s wide-mouthed grin showed a myriad of missing teeth. “Aye, Commodore.”

She gave up trying to struggle when the intensity of the pain in her side became unbearable. Below deck, she trotted to keep up with Collier crossing the length of the ship again. Then down three flights of stairs, finally ending below the orlop in the lowest portion of the ship.

Bilge water lapped at Julia’s shoes and tugged the hem of her dress as it sloshed back and forth, following the motion of the ship.

Collier tugged her over to the nearest upright pole—a support beam, as the bases of the masts where they joined the bottom of the ship were enormous down here. He jammed her hands against the beam, as if expecting the rope to split apart to pass around the beam and then stitch itself back together on the other side.

He held his lantern aloft and looked around them. Frowning, he looked down.

“Hold that.” He thrust the lantern into her hands and then reached down and untied the rope serving as his belt.

Julia lifted her eyes to the bottom of the deck above, just in case his pants gave way.

He looped the thinner rope down between her wrists, circled it around the beam, and tied the ends in a knot, leaving some slack in the loop.

Collier took the lantern back and splashed back toward the stairs. Julia let her eyes roam down the beam in the fading light. She stifled a gasp, hoping Collier did not hear her sharp intake of breath. He continued up the stairs.

A wan light—not light, really, but a memory of light filtering down through the three decks above—came down the companionway after Collier disappeared. Julia moved around the post so she faced astern. She pressed the sides of her hands against the beam and slowly pushed them upward until her fingers came in contact with something sticking out.

Excitement prickled her skin. The square iron peg wasn’t large, just a nail, really, but rather than having a flat end, the end was sharp, as if part of the peg had been sheared away.

She stretched her arms as high as she could reach, panting against the throb in her side, and pulled her hands down until the rope around her wrists caught. She angled her hands to the right and rubbed the rope on the metal peg.

A loud boom shuddered through the ship, which jolted. Sharpedged iron bit into the tender skin of her wrist. She adjusted the angle of her hands and kept rubbing as fast as she could as blasts and booms filled the air.

If the pirate El Salvador were hiding prisoners aboard his ship, and if he had no value and respect for human life, where would he put them?

Michael Witherington lowered his spyglass. Why would Julia have been brought up the companionway under the poop deck but led away, once Shaw was assured everyone was watching, down the quarterdeck and through the forecastle? “She’s in the aft section, likely the orlop or bilge.”

“Sir? How can you be certain?” The sandy-haired lieutenant lowered his glass also.

“Because, Lieutenant Campbell, that’s where I would hide her.”

William Ransome’s second lieutenant startled and then looked scandalized. Again, Michael wondered at Commodore Ransome’s choice to send Campbell when a couple of the others had appeared eager at the idea of serving aboard a pirate ship, even if just for a few hours.

But other than trying to think like a pirate—like a vicious, bloodthirsty one—he had work to do now.

The smallest of the four ships now engaged in combat,
Vengeance
could do something
Alexandra
and
Audacious
could not: sidle up to
Sister Elizabeth
through the blinding smoke and dispatch a boarding party. Certainly, the addition of Lieutenant Campbell and several marines to
Vengance
left
Alexandra
shorthanded, because Ned already had no one to spare, and meant quite crowded quarters on
Vengeance.

The billowing smoke enveloped the frigate, making it impossible to see from one end of the ship to the other.

“Marine guards and sharpshooters, aloft and to the starboard side now,” Michael called, keeping his tone low but clear. “Jean Baptiste, take us in.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

From their positions on the mast tops and along the yardarms, the sharpshooters—both William’s marines and those from Michael’s crew—fired down onto the deck of
Sister Elizabeth.

Michael climbed the mainmast shroud to get a better look. Though the view was clearer from here, smoke still obscured the view. But even with the aid of his telescope, he did not see Shaw anywhere on deck.

Coward.

Beyond
Sister Elizabeth,
the hulking forms of the two Royal Navy ships, each at a forty-five degree angle off the bow and stern of Shaw’s ship, looked like phantoms, appearing only briefly through the billows of roiling smoke.

Michael lowered himself to the deck and leaned over the hatch to the gun deck below. “Load chain shot and bar shot. We must put more of their battery out of commission before we draw closer.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Picaro called back.

“Jean Baptiste, lay off here.”

“Aye, sir.”

Michael returned to the shroud, scanning
Sister Elizabeth
’s deck. He would find Shaw, and when he did, the pirate El Salvador would make one final appearance.

Charlotte sat in the chair directly across the table from the door to the wheelhouse, a loaded pistol on her lap and a cutlass on the table in front of her. Jamison and Gardiner sat to her left and right, similarly armed. Kent, however, paced behind them.

“I’m no child to be cosseted and cared for by a nursery maid. To be in the same room with you is a grievous insult. I will see that Cochrane and Ransome are both drilled out of the service—”

Jamison flew from his seat and pinned Kent to the wall, his forearm across Kent’s collarbones. “You will hold your tongue still in your mouth, you ungrateful wretch.”

Lieutenant Gardiner stood but made no move to interfere in the midshipmen’s quarrel.

Charlotte also rose, not wanting to interfere, but she stepped forward and gently extricated the loaded pistol from Jamison’s other hand.

Kent blinked and then squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to clear them of a foreign object. He’d been doing that regularly ever since they returned from
Sister Mary.
And if he happened to be standing at the time, usually wavered and needed to reach out to steady himself. Charlotte hoped for his sake that whatever ailed his vision and balance would correct itself as his other injuries healed.

“You spent five weeks making Charles Lott’s life miserable because you were jealous of Lott’s skills and knowledge, and perhaps you were frightened Lott would prove you did not deserve to be a watch captain, regardless of your seniority. Charles Lott was one of the finest midshipmen I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving with. So Charles Lott turned out to be Charlotte Ransome. Who cares? To me, it makes Charles Lott’s accomplishments all the more extraordinary. So still your tongue or I will still it for you.” Jamison held Kent there a bit longer and then released him.

“I’ll see you’re out too, Jamison—”

“That is quite enough, Mr. Kent. You are bordering on insubordination. Now sit down and be quiet. That is an
order
from the first lieutenant of this ship.” Lieutenant Gardiner stared at Kent until the younger man looked away.

As Charlotte reached for her chair the ship rocked, throwing her off balance.

“That was a hit for certain.” Jamison, whose eyes were still puffy and bruised, squinted toward the door.

“I can’t stand this any longer.” Kent grabbed his gun and cutlass and ran from the room.

“He’s going to get himself—or someone else—killed.” Charlotte grabbed her weapons, sheathing the cutlass and tucking the gun under her belt. She ran from the dining cabin and out through the wheelhouse, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun and the sting of the smoke, searching the confusion on deck for the white blond head she’d come to know oh so well during her time as Charles Lott, mainly so she could avoid him.

“Kent! Mr. Kent!” She ducked and wove amongst the sailors and gun crews, her eyes straining against the glare and smoke.

Someone grabbed her arm. “What are you doing here? You swore you would stay to the cabin.”

Never had she seen Ned so angry, but this was no longer about her. “It’s Kent. He’s out here somewhere. I have to find him. His eyes—his balance. He’s a danger to everyone, especially to himself.”

Ned growled and released her arm. “Find him, fast, and get him back to the main cabin.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Ned disappeared into the fray again. Charlotte raised up on her toes, trying to see over the rest of the crew. Oh, to have Declan’s height.

Declan! He could help. She turned, scanning the deck for the giant. There, just a few yards away.

Someone yelled, “Take cover.”

Charlotte ducked but kept moving toward Declan. Grapeshot pounded into everything at a certain height above the deck—from masts to rigging to men. Declan disappeared during the barrage, but popped up, bellowing orders as soon as the gun crews on
Sister Elizabeth
stopped to reload.

“Mr. Declan, I need your help—”

“You’re not supposed to be out here.” Without ceremony he grabbed her around the waist, lifted her off her feet, tucked her under his arm, and started back toward the main cabin.

She slapped and smacked at his arm. “Let me down. I have to find Kent. He’s injured. He can’t see well. He’s out here on deck. You have to find him so I can take him back.”

Declan finally set her down. “What’s he look like?”

“Tall—well, compared to me, he’s tall.”

“Everyone is tall compared to you.”

“I will laugh at that joke later, I promise.” She held her hand up to a height about eight inches above the top of her own head. “About this tall, white blond hair. Sharp features like…like a bird. Wearing a midshipman’s uniform.”

If Declan held his arms out to the side, he would look like a capstan. He turned slowly around, scanning the crowd. “He’s in the forecastle. Want that I should go fetch him?”

“What?” It took her a moment to translate his question. “No. You’re needed here. I’ll go.”

Staying low—which also helped in pushing her way through the sea of bodies crowding the deck—Charlotte reached the forecastle.