Ransome's Quest (31 page)

“Looks like she found something sharp to rub the rope against to release herself.” Suresh set her hand down by her side. “When I tried to roll her onto her side so I could check her back for injuries, she cried out when I put pressure here”—he touched the right side of her ribcage—“so she may have broken ribs.”

“She woke up?”

“Not completely. She muttered something and then was gone again.”

“What did she say?”

Suresh shook his head. “Nothing I understood.” He carried the basin to the table and returned with strips of white cloth. “I will bandage her wrists now. I have put water on to heat so you can bathe, Captain.”

Michael sat down and began pulling at a boot.

“Is she who I think she is, Captain?”

“Who do you think she is?” He got the first boot off and started on the second.

“Your sister, Julia Ransome.”

“Yes, she’s who you think she is.”

“Why did you take her, Captain? You never said that was part of our mission.”

Michael dropped his second boot on the floor with a sigh. “It wasn’t. But I could not stand by and watch her die when I was close enough to do something about it.”

He stood, collected his boots, and moved toward his sleeping cabin. “This whole nightmare began because I wanted to protect my sister. I could not let it end with her dying only feet away from me.”

The slashing, hacking, deadly blade sent vibrations of rage up Shaw’s arm and straight to his heart. He was the greatest pirate to have sailed these waters since Bartholomew Roberts, Henry Morgan, or Blackbeard. Men fell silent in fear at the mere mention of his name.

He forced the young officer up the steps to the poop. His ship might be failing, but he would not. He would kill James Ransome and then he would kill Julia. Or maybe he would take her with him and enjoy her company a little longer before killing her. After all, there was so much they had not done together yet.

Terror filled the eyes of the boy on the business end of Shaw’s sword. If his men hadn’t fallen so easily to the attackers, Shaw would stop this fight now and offer the lad a choice. Death or joining the crew of
Sister Elizabeth. A
vital recruitment strategy. One that had gained Shaw some of his best men over the years.

But this morning, his crew had failed him.

That was fine. He would start over. Start fresh. A new ship. A new crew.

He brought his blade up at an angle and swiped the cutlass from the midshipman’s hand. The lad fell back from the force of the blow. Shaw swung his sword around and brought it down hard.

The midshipman rolled out of the way. Shaw turned to follow him and—

Pain—hot, searing, and spreading through his gut. He looked down.

The midshipman still held the smoking pistol pointed toward him. Shaw dropped his sword, the strength ebbing from his arms. His legs went numb and he crumpled to the deck. He clutched his stomach, hot liquid oozing through his fingers.

Gut shot. The best way to kill an enemy. Shoot him in the stomach and watch him die a slow, agonizing death.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. When he died, it was to be glorious, in battle with an enemy even greater than himself. An enemy he had yet to find.

The fighting continued around him. Did not one of his men care that their captain lay dying? One of the Royal Navy ships should have a good surgeon. They should take him, force him to care for Shaw, and bring him back to health so he could continue his quest to defeat the Ransomes and Witheringtons.

He would rest for just a while.

Lying back on the deck, he thought back to when this battle truly began. Fifteen years ago. He had been a pirate for five years, had worked his way up through the ranks until he was first mate for one of the most notorious pirates of the age—until Shaw had overthrown him and taken that title.

When the survivors from the Royal Navy frigate had been brought aboard to be held for ransom, Shaw discovered Michael Witherington among them. He suggested to the captain that he take the boy under his wing. Convince Michael his family no longer wanted him. Make him turn against them.

And it worked. Shaw dreamed of the day when he had Edward Witherington under his blade and revealed Michael—Shaw’s first officer and right hand—to his father. Revealed how Arthur Winchester had been able to take Witherington’s son away from him, just as Witherington had taken everything away from Arthur.

But then Michael turned on him. Convinced the captain what they were doing was bad.

Shaw turned his head. Not as many men still fighting. His vision blurred.

But Michael never returned to his father. So Shaw left him alone. Waited for the right time to reveal his existence.

Water. He needed water. He rolled his head the other way. Where was Collier?

A shadow fell over him. He looked up.

Ransome.

“Here’s his sword, Commodore.” The midshipman who had felled him handed his sword over to Commodore Ransome.

Shaw reached for it. One swift blow, and he could take William Ransome down with him.

“Well done, Midshipman Kennedy. Congratulations. The bounty for bringing down Shaw is a rich one.”

“It should be shared by both crews, sir. I was only doing my duty, just like every other man here.”

Shaw wanted to laugh at the pious youth, but all that came up was a bloody cough.

“Very good, Mr. Kennedy. Help the others with the prisoners.”

Shaw turned his head again. The fighting had stopped. His men had surrendered. He struggled to sit up, but his body would not respond to him.

William Ransome crouched beside him. “Taken down on the deck of his own ship by a sixteen-year-old midshipman. An ignominious end to a bloody and brutal career.”

“It…should…have…been you.” A hate so cold it stole all the warmth from his body settled over Shaw.

“Yes, I should have been the one to take you down. It is sad when boys are thrust into battle at so young an age. Taking a life is not easily forgotten.” William turned the cutlass over in his hands, examining the etching in the silver hilt.

“Tw-twenty years ago…should have killed you.”

Ransome frowned. “Twenty years ago?” He seemed to think on it and then shrugged. “If we met then, I do not recall. You do not leave as deep a first impression as you seem to think.”

Shaw reached up to choke the smugness out of Ransome’s voice, but Ransome batted his hand away.

“Where is my wife?”

“She’s…dead. Drowned in the bilge.” Shaw laughed, blood filling his mouth, darkness obscuring his vision.

“I see.”

Shaw struggled for breath. “Your brother—”

“Yes. We found him, tied to the mizzenmast. My surgeon is even now looking after him. He took two bullets, but his injuries are much less severe than yours.” He looked away a moment and then back down at Shaw, a different, almost apologetic expression on his face. “If you ask God to forgive you, He will. And though you cannot make reparations with everyone whom you have wronged, I will forgive you, if you ask.”

Cold, stark blackness pressed in around Shaw.

“Don’t throw away your afterlife as you’ve thrown away your life, Arthur.”

Too late. It was too late for him.

W
illiam reached down and closed the pirate’s eyes, feeling guilty over having spent so much of Shaw’s last minutes of life taunting him over his defeat. He would answer to God for that in the hereafter.

Ned joined him. “Is he…?”

“Dead? Yes.”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“The honor goes to Mr. Kennedy.” He handed Shaw’s cutlass to Kennedy, a token of his victory, and then headed for the steps to the quarterdeck. “My brother?”

“Returned to
Alexandra
, and, even now, I am certain, under the care of Dr. Hawthorne.”

“And the rest?” On the quarterdeck, William made for the main companionway.

Ned’s boots thumped against the deck behind him. “Of
Audacious
, nine dead and more than a hundred injured, ten seriously. Of
Alexandra
, twelve dead and more than a hundred injured, about twenty seriously.
Vengeance
sailed off during the battle. Several men reported seeing thick smoke billowing from her decks—Sir, where are you going?”

“Shaw said she’s in the bilge.”

“Oh.” Ned grabbed two lanterns and handed one to William.

They descended to the bowels of the ship in silence. In the bilge the water reached William’s knees.

“Commodore,” the master carpenter looked up from his bilge pump. “Water’s down fourteen inches. No major damage that cannot be patched so we can get her back to port, sir.”

“Did you find…anyone? I was told a prisoner was being held down here.” William held his light high, his eyes searching from end to end.

“Hadn’t seen anyone, sir. And we’ve examined the entire space.”

Shaw’s words echoed in his head. If she’d drowned, the water was deep enough—but no, the water wasn’t
that
deep. William’s gut clenched. Shaw had lied to him. Where else would he have kept her?

He turned to Ned. “Have the men stop what they’re doing and search the ship for Julia. Go, now. I’ll start on the orlop.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Ned ran back up the stairs.

William checked every crevice, every corner, every closet and knocked on every crate in the aft section of the orlop. Ned rejoined him, along with Dawling.

They made their way forward, passing several others, and then went up to the lower gun deck. By the time they reached the quarterdeck, the sun had passed its zenith…but William’s heart had sunk to the bottom of the sea.

“Commodore Ransome!” A midshipman climbed up onto the quarterdeck from the accommodation ladder and then ran to William, stopping with a salute. “Sir, message from Doc Hawthorne. Your brother is awake and asks to speak with you.”

For now, there was nothing more William could do here. He turned to Ned. “Keep searching.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Fear benumbed William, body and soul, and memories of the accounts of those who had survived being held prisoner by Shaw ran through his mind. If, as Michael Witherington had suggested, Shaw had a personal vendetta against William and Sir Edward, Julia had not fared well at his hand. But Shaw had taken effort to show Julia to William—a dirty, bedraggled Julia, but Julia nonetheless—and then sent her below before the battle started. She must be on that ship somewhere.

He entered at the main gun deck entry port instead of climbing all the way up to
Alexandra
’s quarterdeck. The majority of his crew—the ones who hadn’t boarded
Sister Elizabeth
—worked on cleaning up and repairing
Alexandra.

“Commodore on deck!”

All activity stopped as the men turned to pay their respects to their commander—the sailors knuckling their foreheads, midshipmen and lieutenants touching the brims and fore points of their hats. William touched his hat and then made his way forward to the sick berth.

Dr. Hawthorne looked up from the patient on his table and nodded toward the hammocks hung near the open gun port.

James sat in the square hammock closest to the portal, staring out it at the side of
Sister Elizabeth.

“James.”

His brother looked around, and William’s chest tightened. How could his brother issue such palpable horror with so vacant an expression? William moved closer and settled his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “What happened?”

Red scabs traced cuts across both sides of James’s face. Bandages wrapped around his throat, his chest, his wrists, his left thigh. “I disobeyed your orders, Will.”

William winced at the gruffness of his brother’s voice, a hoarse sound from more than smoke inhalation. “Yes, I realize that.”

“I wanted to prove to you that I could be just as cunning, just as bold as you. So I tracked Shaw down. His ships had been seen near this islet before.” Under the bandage, James’s throat convulsed and he coughed.

William reached around to the barrel behind him and handed a dipper of water to his brother. James took a few sips, grimacing as he swallowed.