The Red Siren

by M. L. Tyndall

  “Prepare to go about!” she barked across the deck, sending the crew up into the shrouds. Plucking the spyglass from her belt, she scanned the coastline, nigh three miles off their starboard side. She must turn the ship around and maintain a leisurely course in the same direction their prey would be sailing, thus allowing their enemies to come alongside with ease when they took the bait.

  She heard the familiar hollow thud of Lucas’s boots approach.

  “Hard to larboard, Lucas, but keep a slow pace.” She lowered her glass and squinted at him in the sunlight. A strand of hair slapped her face, and she waved it aside.

  With a nod, he swung about and began braying orders. “Ease down the helm! Let go the foresheets and headsheets!”

  “Bring down the foresheets, bring down the foresheets,” Morgan hooted as he paced upon his tiny perch.

  The purling of the sea along the hull softened to a trickle as the ship slowed.

  Lucas wiped the sweat from his neck. “Helm, bring her about. Raise tacks and sheets.” Men scrambled like monkeys across the ratlines, shrouds, and yards that towered precariously overhead.

  Faith gripped the railing as the ship veered to port, spitting a fountain of white foam off her stern. After further orders, the yards on the main and crossjack swung around together and braced up sharp on the new tack. Wind eased into the rising canvas, sending the ship skimming through the turquoise water.

  Kane joined her at the main deck railing and spit off to the side. The rugged boy’s dark gaze took in the expanse of sea before them. “When d’ye expect this ship o’ yers, Capitaine?” He folded arms nearly as thick as his thighs across his chest.

  “Anytime now. Not to worry, Kane.” Faith had never regretted offering a position on her ship to the half-French, half-British seaman she’d found tied to a chain, scrubbing the deck of a French merchant vessel. Later she’d learned he’d been abandoned by his young mother on the streets of Bristol and, at the age of thirteen, press-ganged into the Royal Navy. Now barely eighteen, though his face remained boyish, he had grown into a very imposing seaman.

  He flashed a playful grin her way. “I ain’t worried none, Capitaine,” he said in that peculiar accent of his that still held a trace of French. “Ye have a natural sense about ye when it comes to ships.”

  “Is the barrel ready to be set afire?” Faith asked.

  “Just awaitin’ yer order, Capitaine.” He pressed both sides of his mustache.

  They had not come across any ships of note on the passage south, so she had to assume the treasure ship would soon pass their way. One glance at the sun’s position told her it was close to eleven o’clock. She hoped they wouldn’t have long to wait.

  But wait they did.

  Another three hours passed in which no ships were seen save a small fishing vessel that gave them a friendly hail. Standing on the quarterdeck, Faith clutched the railing. The rough wood bit into her skin. Trickles of perspiration slid beneath her heavy gown as the sun, now beginning its descent in the sky, flung its fiery arrows upon them. But she doubted it was the sun that caused her to perspire. Her nerves knotted into balls with each passing second. Where is that ship?

  “Don’t be worryin’ none, Cap’n,” Wilson said behind her as he steadfastly manned the helm.

  She cast him a measured smile over her shoulder. As stout a sailor as ever could be found and none more loyal, Wilson had stood at the ship’s wheel for hours without complaint. “Have Strom relieve you, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Nay, I’d like to stay at me post, if ye don’t mind.”

  Faith nodded with a smile and turned back around.

  Lucas’s tall figure loomed over one of the men below on the main deck as he assisted him in securing a rope on the belaying pin. The other pirates lingered about like powder kegs ready to explode. Some busied themselves playing dice, others cleaning their weapons. She allowed no drinking on her ship before a raid. Rum dulled the wits and slowed the senses, but the lack of it seemed to keep the men far too jittery.

  Faith drew in a deep breath of crisp air, bringing with it the earthy scents of damp wood and tar. Oh, how she loved the smells of a ship! Yet not even sailing upon her precious sea could loosen the dread that now fastened itself around her. Perhaps she was the one who had been duped. She took a quick scan of the horizon and bit her lip. Had the captain known who she was all along? Had he set a trap for her? Her legs numbed.

  “Nobody’s fool, nobody’s fool,” Morgan cawed from his perch on the mainmast just below Faith, his words echoing her own impression of Mr. Waite. She frowned at her feathery friend. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  With a flap of his red and blue wings, he cocked his head upward and stared at her with one eye.

  “A sail, a sail!” Mac shouted.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, she surveyed the horizon.

  The dark silhouette of a ship bore down upon them.

  Chapter 11

  Pressing the spyglass to her eye, Faith focused on the brimming sails. A three-masted, square-rigged merchant ship rose and plunged over the agitated sea. Dutch and British colors flapped in the breeze over her foremast and mizzenmast. From her lines and size, she appeared to be a fluyt, a Dutch-designed ship built to hold a large cargo and a small crew.

  But not built to house many guns. Faith grinned.

  She focused on the larboard bow. The words Vliegende Draeck stood out in blue upon the tan hull. “The Flying Dragon,” Faith whispered, snapping the spyglass shut.

  “Light the fire!” she bellowed then scanned the crew. “Get below hatches and wait for my command.”

  Clutching her skirts, Faith leaped down the quarterdeck ladder and rushed to the railing, waving her cream-colored fan over her head.

  Black smoke curled up from the barrel as several pirates dropped buckets into the sea and then hoisted them up, pretending to battle the flames.

  Gripping the railing, Faith leaned over the side and knotted her face into a look of utter despair while shrieking pleas for help toward the merchantman. She made out the silhouette of the captain on the vessel’s foredeck and the glint of sunlight off his spyglass as he studied her.

  Veering slightly to larboard, the Flying Dragon turned and began its approach bow on.

  Lucas smacked his lips. “Looks like ye’ve caught a big fish on yer hook this time, mistress.”

  “Aye, ’twas easier than I thought,” Faith remarked out of the side of her mouth while maintaining her display of distress.

  Ivory foam spewed upon the bow of the Dutch ship as she sped toward her trap. Then, suddenly, the creamy spray slunk back into the sea. The merchant vessel slowed. Down went her topgallants and mainsails until she took up a gliding position just outside the reach of the Red Siren’s guns.

  Faith dropped her fan to her side with a huff. “Of all the nerve. Why does he not rescue me?”

  Lucas chuckled and adjusted the captain’s hat Faith insisted he wear during raids. “Mebbe he don’t favor women.”

  “Perhaps you should drape yourself over the rail, then?” Faith scanned her crew. “Begin to lower the boats, men. And act more frantic. Quicken the fire! We need more smoke. And hurry it up there. Grayson, Strom,” she barked at two pirates passing by with buckets in hand. They stopped and gave her sheepish grins. “You need to appear terrified, not like you are carrying water to a Sunday picnic.”

  “Sorry, Cap’n.” Grayson’s one remaining tooth perched like a yellowed pyramid among a desert of decaying gums. The portly seaman—with the shortest arms Faith had ever seen, reaching only to his waist—always made her smile. Strom, a gangly, shy youth with hair braided down his back, lowered his eyes under Faith’s perusal and trotted after Grayson to fetch more water.

  Faith turned to Lucas. “Perhaps ’tis you,” she said, looking him up and down. “You do present a formidable figure.” She handed him the spyglass. “Gaze at them and give them a friendly wave.”

  Raising the glass, Lucas perused the vessel. “She s
its low in the water.”

  “That would be the treasure. ‘Laden with pearls,’ I believe, was the phrase the good Mr. Waite used. Pray tell, what is their captain doing?”

  “He be talkin’ with three of his crew, mistress—like he’s decidin’ what to do.” Lucas lowered the glass and gave a friendly wave to the merchant ship. “I be thinkin’ ye might ’ave met your match. This captain be smart. He takes no chances with so much treasure aboard.”

  “Of all the impertinence.” Faith tossed her hands to her hips. “What sort of gentleman allows a lady to burn to death?” Shaking her head, she strutted toward middeck. “I suppose we shall have to go after him.” The idea was not without its appeal, for she dearly loved the thrill of the chase. Besides, it could take several hours to plunder the ship once they caught her, depending on the amount of treasure in her hold. “Look, mistress, he sends a boat.”

  Faith spun on her heels and snatched the spyglass from Lucas. Ten men lowered themselves into one of the ship’s longboats and shoved off.

  “Good heavens, now what to do? When they discover our ruse. . .”

  “Can I blow ’em out o’ the water, Cap’n?” Bates, her master gunner, had popped up from the hatch and stood before them, a gleam in his twitching eyes.

  “Fire the guns, fire the guns,” Morgan screeched.

  “Nay.” Faith slapped the spyglass into the palm of her hand. “We shall take them hostage.” She winked at Lucas, who gave her a sly look in return.

  “By thunder, I think that’ll work, mistress.”

  “Never fear, Mr. Bates.” Faith gave the gun master a reassuring nod. “If all goes well, you will put your precious guns to the test soon enough.”

  “Aye.” Bates’s gloomy expression brightened, and he turned and wobbled away on the block of wood that served as his right foot—a souvenir of the Queen Anne’s War.

  Within minutes the longboat slogged against the hull of the Red Siren, and Lucas beckoned the men upward. One by one they leaped over the railing, their cautious eyes roving over the ship. Some had swords sheathed at their sides, others with pistols stuffed in baldrics, but they did not draw them, perhaps lured into a deception of safety by the sight of so few sailors on board and Faith’s sweet, innocent smile.

  Silence seeped through the ship, interrupted only by the lap of the waves against the hull.

  A man of no more than two and twenty, with a comely face and a pointed beard, bowed with a sweep of his plumed hat before Lucas. “My captain sends his regards and bids us assist you in putting out your fire, Captain.”

  Faith sauntered forward and placed her boot on a stool, drawing the attention of the men—partly, she assumed, because they had never seen a lady wearing boots and partly because she bared the curve of her shapely calf.

  “I accept your assistance as well as your captain’s regards.” Faith grinned as she reached under her skirts and plucked a pistol from a strap around her thigh. “But I must insist you remain on board as our guests.” She leveled the gun at the young merchantman as the rest of her crew drew and cocked their weapons.

  A horde of pirates spilled from the hatches, curses firing from their mouths. They formed a barricade around the sailors before they could draw their weapons.

  “Clap ’em in irons. Clap ’em in irons,” Morgan admonished with a flap of his wings.

  “Welcome aboard the pirate ship the Red Siren, gentlemen.” Faith leveled a sardonic gaze upon them. Oh, how she loved saying those words and, even more so, watching the expressions of those who heard it from her mouth.

  Shock, anger, and fear combined into a whirl of emotions that swept over the men’s faces. Their shoulders slumped as they raised their hands into the air.

  Faith ordered them bound with rope and wire and taken below, then she turned toward the Dutch ship. As expected, the capture of his crew had not gone unnoticed by the captain. Men darted across the deck in a mad frenzy as sails were raised to meet the wind.

  “Hard to starboard, Mr. Wilson. All hands, up tops and gallants. After her!” she shouted.

  The crew flew up into the ratlines as the ship veered to starboard. In moments, the white canvas caught the wind in a jarring snap that sent the Red Siren plummeting over the churning waves.

  Faith marched to the foredeck as the ship pitched over a roller, spraying her with salty mist. “Raise our colors, if you please, Lucas.” She tossed the command over her shoulder, knowing her first mate would not be far behind her.

  Lucas repeated the order to one of the pirates nearby, sending him to the ropes. Soon, down came the white, red, and blue British Union Jack and up went the scarlet emblem of the Red Siren—a dark silhouette of a woman with a sword in one hand and pistol in the other set against a red background.

  Gripping the railing, Faith surveyed her fleeing prey. Although the Flying Dragon had all her canvas spread to the breeze, she lumbered through the water like an overstuffed whale. Faith smiled, doubting such a heavily laden ship would live up to her name today.

  Blocks creaked and spars rattled above her as they slung aweather and all sails glutted themselves with wind. Sunlight sparkled in clusters of diamonds off the azure sea, reminding Faith of the treasure she would soon possess—and the security it would provide her sisters. Excitement quickened her heart, along with an occasional twinge of fear. She expected no resistance, but there was always the chance someone would get injured. And although her crew had known the risks when they signed on with her, she doubted she could bear it if one of them took a fall.

  Faith glanced at Lucas, who stood beside her—ever the rock of calm assurance. He winked then smacked his lips together in anticipation of the battle.

  The Red Siren rose and swooped over the sea as they bore down upon the doomed Dutchman. Within minutes, they came alongside, matching her thrust for thrust through the choppy waters and positioning themselves within gun range.

  “Lucas, have Bates fire a warning shot over their bow, if you please.”

  “Aye, aye, mistress.” Lucas jumped down the foredeck ladder and disappeared below.

  Soon the familiar command to fire echoed through the ship, and the vessel exploded in a thunderous boom that sent a violent shudder through her hull. Gray smoke enveloped them and stung Faith’s nose. Coughing, she swatted it aside, anxiously peering toward the Flying Dragon to see the effect of their threat.

  The merchant vessel did not lower her sails.

  “Signal them to put their helm over,” she roared over her shoulder to Lambert.

  Lucas and Grayson joined her on the foredeck while Lambert scrambled aloft to lower and raise the fore topsail, but before he could signal the Flying Dragon, her answer came in the form of a volley from the demichasers at her stern. A hail of small deadly shot pummeled the deck, sending the pirates ducking for cover.

  “By thunder.” Grayson, who did not so much as flinch at the volley, scratched his coarse beard. “That cap’n sure’s got some pluck.”

  “He’s naught but a fool,” Faith spat. She spun around to face her first mate. “Lucas, bring the prisoners up on deck and place them in plain sight.”

  He nodded.

  “Then bring us in closer and ready the chain shot. If he wishes to make things difficult, I shall be happy to comply.”

  “Aye, aye, mistress.” Lucas stormed away and fired orders across the ship.

  Grayson shifted his bloodshot, droopy eyes her way.

  Taking his thick, rough hand in hers, Faith squeezed it. “Next time we are fired upon, please protect yourself, Grayson. I would like you to sail with me for a while longer.”

  With a flash of his single tooth, Grayson’s weathered face blossomed into a bright shade of red. “At me age, Cap’n, I’d rather be takin’ me chances standing upright than break a bone droppin’ to the deck.” Chuckling, he ambled away.

  Facing forward, Faith braced herself as the Red Siren pitched over a wave and angled to starboard. Salt water sprayed a cool mist over her, shielding her from the
continual onslaught of the sun.

  They must hurry. Mr. Waite would no doubt come in search of the treasure ship when she failed to make an appearance at their rendezvous off Hilton Head. Faith drew a shaky breath. She had no intention of facing one of His Majesty’s warships, nor the battle-honored man who commanded her. After checking the pistol stuffed in her waistband, she clutched her skirts, barreled down the foredeck ladder to the main deck, and glanced at her enemy, nigh fifty yards abaft the Red Siren’s beam. Men huddled around a swivel gun mounted on her railing, readying it to fire. If Bates did not hurry, they might have to endure another barrage of round shot.

  Lucas popped his head above hatches. “Waitin’ on your command to fire, mistress.”

  “Whenever you have the shot.”

  No sooner had Lucas disappeared below than another thunderous blast rocked the Red Siren. Faith grabbed the capstan, closing her eyes against the acrid smoke. Even before it cleared, the distant crack of splitting timbers and the boom of falling wood confirmed their success. Dashing to the railing, Faith gazed toward the Flying Dragon, her shape taking form in the dissipating mist. Her foremast was shattered, and fragments of her yards and a tangle of cordage hung to the decks below.

  Crowding around the railing, the pirates waited to see their enemy’s response. Finally, the merchant vessel dipped her colors in surrender.

  Huzzahs and shouts of glee rose from the pirates, and soon the Red Siren crashed alongside the Dutch merchant ship to grapple and board her. Faith moved the prisoners, hands still bound behind their backs, within view of their captain.

  Then, standing with one boot upon the bulwarks, she cocked and pointed her pistol at the head of one of the prisoners—the young man with the plumed hat who had first spoken to Lucas. Sweat broke out above his upper lip where a slight quiver had suddenly taken residence. She longed to assure him she meant him no harm. But instead she yelled across the expanse to the merchantmen. “I will speak to the captain.”

  After muffled protests, a stout man with a barrel chest and a mop of brown hair detached himself from the group of sailors and marched forward. With legs spread apart, he crossed his arms over his chest and cast an anxious glance toward the young man at the barrel end of Faith’s gun.