The Prize (6 page)

She had not a doubt
that her uncle had the funds to save Sweet Briar. He was her only hope.

But clearly he didn't
wish to save the plantation, or he would have already done so. That meant she
had to confront him directly—personally. A letter would not do. The stakes were
far too high. Somehow, she would find the means to cross the Atlantic Ocean,
even if it meant selling some of her mother's precious jewelry, and she would
meet her uncle and convince him to save Sweet Briar rather than sell it. She'd
beg, rationalize, argue, debate, she'd do whatever she had to, even marry a
perfect stranger, as long as he agreed to pay off her father's debts. Virginia
realized she had to make plans and quickly, because she was on her way to
England.

She knew she could do
this. As her father was so fond of saying, where there was a will there was a
way.

She'd always had
plenty of will. Now she'd find a way.

May
1, 1812
London
,
England

Word had spread of
his arrival. Cheering throngs lined the banks of the
Thames
as his ship, the
Defiance
,
proudly edged her way toward the naval
docks.

Devlin O'Neill stood
square on the quarterdeck, unsmiling, his arms folded across his chest, a
tall, powerful figure as still as a statue. For the occasion of this
homecoming—if it could be called such—he was in his formal naval attire. A
bluejacket with tails, gold epaulets adorning each shoulder, pale white
britches and stockings, highly polished shoes. His black felt bicorn was worn
with the points facing out, as only admirals had the privilege of wearing the
points front to back. His hair, a brilliant gold, was too long and pulled back
in a queue. The crowd—men, women and children, agile and infirm, all
London
's poorest classes—raced up the riverbanks alongside
his ship. Some of the women threw flowers at it.

A hero's welcome, he
thought with no mirth at all. A hero's welcome for the man one and all called
"His Majesty's pirate."

He had not set foot
in
Great Britain
for an entire year. He would not
be setting foot there now, had he a choice, but it had become impossible to
ignore this last summons from the Admiralty, their fourth. His mouth twisted
coldly. What he wanted was a steady bed and a pox-free woman who was not a
whore, but his needs would have to wait. He did not wonder what the admirals
wanted—he had disobeyed so many orders and broken so many rules in the past
year that they could be asking for his head on any number of counts. He also
knew he would be receiving new orders, which he looked forward to. He never
lingered in any port for more than a few days or perhaps a week.

His glance swept over
his ship. The
Defiance
was a thirty-eight-gun frigate known for her
speed and her agility, but mostly for her captain's outrageous and
unconventional daring. He was well aware that the sight of his ship caused
other ships to turn tail and run, hence his preference for pursuit at night.
Now top men were high on both the fore and main masts, reefing sails. Fifty
marines in their red coats stood stiffly at attendance, muskets in their arms,
as the frigate cruised toward its berth. Other sailors stood with them, eager
for the liberty he would soon grant. Forecastle men readied the ship's huge
anchors. All in all, three hundred men stood upon the frigate's decks. Beyond
the docks, where two state-of-the-line three deckers, several sloops, a
schooner and two gunships were at birth, the spires and rooftops of
London
gleamed in the bright blue sky.

The past year had
been a very lucrative one. A year of cruising from the
Strait
of
Gibraltar
to
Algiers
, from the
Bay
of
Biscayne
to the Portuguese coast. There'd been
forty-eight prizes and more than five hundred captured crewmen.

His duties had been
routine—escorting supply convoys, patrolling coastal shorelines, enforcing the
blockade of
France
. Nights had been spent swooping
upon unsuspecting French privateers, days lolling upon the high seas. He had
been rather wealthy before this past year, but now, with this last prize, an
American ship loaded with gold bullion, he was a very wealthy man, indeed.

And finally, a smile
touched his lips.

But the boy
trembled and remained afraid. The boy refused to go away. No amount of wealth,
no amount of power, could be enough. And the boy had only to close his eyes to
see his father's eyes, enraged and sightless in his severed head, there upon
the Irish ground in a pool of his own blood.

Devlin had gone to
sea three years after the Wexford uprising, with the Earl of Adare's
permission and patronage. Adare had married his mother within the year,
although his baby sister, Meg, had never been found. The earl had fabricated a
naval history for Devlin, enabling him to start his career as a midshipman and
not as the lowliest sailor far below decks. Devlin had quickly risen to the
rank of lieutenant. Briefly he'd served on Nelson's flagship. At the Battle of
Trafalgar, the captain of the sloop he was serving on had taken an unlucky hit
and been killed instantly; Devlin had as quickly assumed command. The small
vessel had only had ten guns, but she was terribly quick, and Devlin had snuck
the
Gazelle
in under the leeward hull of a French frigate. With the
French ship sitting so high above them, her every broadside had sailed right
over the
Gazelle.
His own guns, at point blank range, had torn apart the
decks and rigging, crippling the bigger, faster ship immediately. He'd towed
his prize proudly into Leghorn and shortly after had received a promotion to
captain, his own command and a fast schooner, the
Loretta.

He had only been
eighteen.

There had been so
many battles and so many prizes since then. But the biggest prize of all yet
remained to be taken, and it did not exist upon the high seas of the world.

The heat of highly
controlled rage, always broiling deep within him, simmered a bit more. Devlin
ignored it. Instead of thinking of the future reckoning that would one day come
with Harold Hughes, now the Earl of Eastleigh, he watched as the
Defiance
eased
into its berth between a schooner and a gunship. Devlin nodded at his second in
command, a brawny red-haired Scot, Lieutenant MacDonnell. Mac used the horn to
announce a week's liberty. Devlin smiled a little as his men cheered and
hollered, then watched his decks clear as if the signal to jump ship had been
given. He didn't mind. His crew was top-notch. Some fifty of his men had been
with him since he'd been given his first ship; half of his crew had been with
him since the collapse of the Treaty of Tilsit. They were good men, brave and
daring. His crew was so well-honed that no one hesitated even when his commands
seemed suicidal. The
Defiance
had become the scourge of the seas because
of their loyalty, faith and discipline.

He was proud of his
crew.

Mac fell into step
with him, looking uncomfortable in his naval uniform, which he seemed to have
outgrown. Mac was Devlin's own age, twenty-four, and this past year he had
bulked out. Devlin thought they made an odd duo—the short, broad Scot with the
flaming hair, the tall, blond Irishman with the cold silver eyes.

"Ach, got to
find me land legs," Mac growled.

Devlin smiled as the
land heaved under them as high and hard as any storm swell. He clapped his
shoulder. "Give it a day."

"That I shall, a
day and seven, if you don't mind." Mac grinned. He had all his teeth and
only one was rotten. "Got

plans, Cap? I'm
achin' meself for a lusty whore. Me first stop, I tell you that." His
laughter was bawdy.

Devlin was lenient
with the men—like most ships' commanders, he allowed them their whores in
port, but he preferred them to bring the women aboard, so the ship's surgeon
could take a good look at them. He wanted his crew pox-free. "We were in
Lisbon a week ago," he said mildly.

"Feels like a
year," Mac grunted.

Devlin saw the post
chaise waiting for him—he'd sent word to Sean by mail packet that he was on his
way back. "Can I offer you a ride, Mac?"

Mac flushed.
"Not goin' to town," he said, referring to the West End.

Devlin nodded,
reminding him that he was expected back aboard the
Defiance
in a week's
time to set sail at noon, with all three hundred of his men. His rate of
desertion was almost zero, an astonishing fact that no one in the British navy
could understand. But then, with so many spoils taken and shared, his crew were
all well off.

Thirty minutes later
the chaise was clipping smartly over London Bridge. Devlin stared at the
familiar sights. After days spent in the wind and on the sea, or at exotic,
sultry ports in the Mediterranean, North Africa and Portugal, the city looked
dark and dirty, unclean. Still, he was a man who liked a beautiful woman and
refused a common whore, and his wandering eye took in more than his fair share
of elegant ladies in chaises, carriages and on foot, shopping in the specialty
stores. His loins stirred. He had sent several letters ahead and one was to his
English mistress. He fully expected to be entertained that night and all the
week long.

The London offices of
the Admiralty were on Brook Street in an imposing limestone building built half
a century before. Officers, aides and adjutants were coming and going. Here and
there, groups of officers paused in conversation. As Dev-

                              
55

lin pushed open the
heavy wood doors and entered a vast circular lobby with a high-domed ceiling,
heads began to turn his way. Portraits of the greatest admirals in British
history adorned the walls, as did paintings of the greatest ships and battles.
His mistress had once said his portrait would soon hang there, too. The
conversation began to diminish. An eerie quiet settled over the lobby; Devlin
was amused. He heard his name being whispered about.

"Captain
O'Neill, sir?" A young lieutenant with crimson cheeks saluted him smartly
from the bottom of the marble staircase.

Devlin saluted him
rather causally back.

"I am to escort
you to Admiral St. John, sir," the freckle-faced youth said. His flush had
somehow deepened.

"Please
do," Devlin remarked, unable to restrain a sigh. St. John was not quite
the enemy—he disliked insubordination, but he knew the value of his best
fighting captain. It was Admiral Farnham who wanted nothing more than to
court-martial him and publicly disgrace him, and these days, he was egged on
by Captain Thomas Hughes, the Earl of Eastleigh's son.

Admiral St. John was
waiting for him. He was a slender man with a shock of white hair, and he was
not alone. Farnham was with him—at once bulkier and taller, with far less
hair—and so was the Earl of Liverpool, the minister of war.

Devlin entered the
office, saluting. He was intrigued, as he could not recall ever seeing
Liverpool at West Square.