Lord of the Privateers

by Stephanie Laurens

  After declaring that he had more important matters to deal with, he left the five trussed where they sat, watched over by three of Robert’s men, and went to the barracks’ porch. He’d sent men to summon all leaders—his brothers, his cousins, all officers, as well as the de facto leaders of the captives—to a conference to decide what had to be done and to delegate the necessary tasks. Although the rear wall of the barracks and the end closest to the tower had caught fire, the flames hadn’t taken hold; several buckets of water had left the affected planks smoldering sullenly, but the building itself remained sound.

  Royd sat on the porch. While he waited for the others to arrive, he compiled a mental list of the usual chores—treating the injured, disposing of the bodies, collecting weapons, making the perimeter at least temporarily secure again. Searching through Dubois’s papers for any evidence regarding their five prisoners and the other backers. Making ready to evacuate the captives to the coast, along with the prisoners.

  By the time the men gathered, along with a transparently hugely relieved Aileen, who appeared arm in arm with her brother Will, Royd had the list fixed in his mind. But before he could speak, he saw Isobel, Katherine, and the other women captives, plus Babington, striding over from the women and children’s hut. Royd had put Babington in charge of the protective detail by the lake, thus allowing him to reunite with his Mary at the earliest possible moment; he now strode along with a huge smile on his face, one hand wrapped around the fingers of a sweet-faced young woman who looked as if her fondest dream had come true.

  Isobel swung up to sit beside him, her breeches giving her a freedom of movement he associated with childhood days in the shipyards. “The children were so excited, they’d exhausted themselves. They’re all in dreamland already.”

  The patter of feet heralded Edwina. She halted beside Declan. “I wanted to hear, but I’ll have to get back soon—we have lots of cuts to treat and some stitching to do.”

  Royd nodded; he hadn’t expected Edwina to busy herself with that sort of stitchery. But presumably, stitches were stitches, and he could imagine hers were small and precise. He met her gaze, then looked around the circle of faces. “First, do we have any casualties?”

  Caleb, his chest covered by a shirt he’d found in the barracks, reported, “Two. One of the original captives, a navvy named Wattie Watson. He went up against a mercenary trying to escape through the gates—Wattie was armed with only a spade.”

  Royd knew his expression was harsh. “And did the mercenary escape?”

  “No.” It was Kit who answered.

  Royd gave her a nod and returned his attention to Caleb. “Who else?”

  Caleb grimaced. Sadly, he said, “One of the older boys—Si. The four disobeyed our orders to remain in the men’s hut and thrust themselves into the fighting. The other three are bruised and cut, but nothing serious. Si took a knife to the side.”

  Royd thought of a young life needlessly snuffed out. They all did. Then he blew out a breath. “It could have been a lot worse.”

  Heads nodded reluctantly, but that was undeniably true.

  Royd glanced at Edwina. “Are there any serious cases in the medical hut?”

  She shook her head. “None life-threatening. Well, as long as we can stretch the salve out, but there seems to be a reasonable stock, so I expect we’ll manage. But the sooner we can get everyone to Freetown and better bandages, the better.”

  “There’ll be more supplies on board our ships,” Declan reminded her.

  “Next item,” Royd said. “Collecting the bodies and burying the dead.”

  Hillsythe and Lascelle volunteered to oversee that task; as both, Royd suspected, had experience of the grisly work, he accepted without demur, and they left to gather their men.

  Royd went quickly down his list. Fanshawe, Hopkins, and Dixon took on the chore of collecting all the unclaimed weapons, while Lachlan and Kit put up their hands to resecure the perimeter; as they’d been instrumental in unsecuring it, that seemed sensible.

  Robert and Royd would search through Dubois’s papers, aided by Babington, while Declan and two of the women—Harriet and Gemma—suggested they and Declan’s crew should put the kitchen to rights and go through the stores to see what they could salvage for breakfast and the trek to the coast.

  With tasks allocated, everyone dispersed. Edwina, Isobel, Aileen, Katherine, and the other three women all left for the medical hut.

  Robert pushed away from the porch and gestured at the barracks’ door. “Shall we?”

  Royd waved him and Babington on. “You make a start—I need to show my face in the medical hut.”

  Robert nodded; personally checking on the wounded was a necessary aspect of command, at least as Frobishers saw it.

  When he entered the medical hut, Royd found a scene that, at first glance, resembled utter chaos—then he realized it was organized chaos. As he passed down the line of the injured, bestowing encouragement and assurances, any doubts he’d harbored over the wisdom of his brothers acceding to Edwina’s and Aileen’s insistence to accompany them vanished beneath a wave of gratitude. In a situation such as this, the two bossiest women he knew—even more so than Isobel and Iona—were godsends. Together with Isobel, Katherine, and the other three women, they ministered to the injured with a mixture of compassion, empathy, and martinet-like command that enabled even the crustiest sailor to accept their help with good grace.

  Yielding to a ministering angel was an act of wisdom, not weakness.

  Something Caleb was patently learning. Royd found his youngest brother seated on a stool, being doctored by both Edwina and Katherine. Royd gathered that Caleb had committed what, in the ladies’ eyes, apparently ranked as a cardinal sin by donning a shirt before having his wounds tended.

  His hands on his thighs, his chest once again bare, Caleb sat and endured as the two women inspected his cuts and applied a brown salve.

  Edwina frowned, then gently prodded. “Are we sure this doesn’t need stitching?”

  “Totally sure,” Caleb responded.

  Without looking up, Edwina said, “I wasn’t talking to you.” She glanced at Katherine. “See—just here, it’s deeper.”

  Caleb cast Royd an anguished glance.

  Grinning, Royd raised a hand in salute and left him to his fate.

  He spent twenty more minutes doing the rounds of those still waiting to be seen and those already treated who’d been bedded down in one of the two large rooms. Isobel and Katherine were both busy treating others, while Mary and the other two women were distributing cups of tea.

  Isobel stopped him as he was about to leave. “You and the others”—with her head, she indicated those outside—“doubtless have scratches and shallow cuts. Katherine told me that, in this climate, we need to treat every little thing so it doesn’t fester. That’s why they have such a large stock of this salve.” She pressed three small pots into his hands. “We’re too busy here to chase you all—you and the others can anoint yourselves, then pass the pots around. Everyone needs to take care.”

  He nodded. “I expect we’ll be gathering later, when the others return to report. I’ll mention it then.”

  “Good.” She stretched up and kissed him, squeezed his arm, then let him go and turned to the next injured man.

  Royd reached the door and realized Caleb was sitting on the porch steps, his arm around the hunched shoulders of a boy sitting beside him. Two other boys of similar age were standing close by, their heads bowed, their gazes cast down.

  Rather than interrupt, Royd leaned against the wall just inside the open door.

  “Gerry.” Briefly, Caleb hugged the lad beside him. “Si dying isn’t your fault.” He glanced at the other boys. “Not yours or anyone else’s.”

  “We shoulda stayed inside like you and Mr. Hillsythe said.” Gerry hiccuped. “If we ha
d, Si’d still be alive.”

  “Yes, and next time you’ll know that orders like that need to be obeyed.” Caleb paused, then more quietly said, “It’s sad that Si died, but he made his own decision to go out and join the fighting. You all made your own decisions. He was responsible for the decision that led to his death—not any of you. But you’ve now learned that fighting is real—that people get badly injured and die. That’s an important thing to learn. If you learned that today, and you never forget it, then something useful will have come from Si’s death. His dying won’t have been entirely in vain.”

  It was hard to know what to say to striplings in such circumstances; Royd approved of Caleb’s tack. The moment made Royd think of Duncan and all the learning his son had before him.

  “Come on.” Caleb lifted his arm from the boy and rose. “Let’s get you to the hut—you should be in your hammocks. There’ll be lots to do tomorrow.”

  Royd waited until the small band was several yards away before emerging from the hut and heading for the barracks. Lanterns had been lit and passed around to all those working, while other lanterns had been placed strategically around the compound, lighting the way for those, like Royd, moving from hut to hut.

  Along the way, he passed on the three pots of salve with instructions, then joined Robert and Charles Babington inside the barracks.

  They’d made a good start going through the papers and ledgers in and around Dubois’s desk. Leaving them focused on that, Royd took a lamp and walked down the long, rectangular hut. At the far end, where the sidewall was blackened, he found a trundle bed set apart from the others. He set down the lamp and searched. Under the pallet, he found a small bound book. He sat on the bed, opened the book, and read.

  Twenty minutes later, he walked back to Dubois’s desk and showed Robert and Babington what he’d found. They’d uncovered other useful references. Babington found a satchel, and they put the papers and book inside. Royd hefted the satchel.

  Robert had gone to the door. “They’ve built up the fire. It looks like we’re gathering there.”

  Royd followed Robert, and Babington trailed behind. They sat on the logs around the fire pit.

  Soon after, the women joined them.

  Isobel slumped against Royd’s side. “All those with serious wounds have been treated.” She tipped her head, resting it on his shoulder. “No one needs anything more done tonight.”

  He turned his chin enough to drop a light kiss on her forehead.

  As the warmth from the fire played over him, and the warmth of her, safe, alive, and by his side, seeped into his soul, he finally started to relax.

  They’d taken the compound, rescued the captives, and lost only two in the process. They had the three local villains and two of the backers in custody. They’d succeeded amazingly well in achieving the most important of their goals.

  He said as much when, drawn by the fire, the rest of the company bar the children gathered to report and learn how matters stood. In the aftermath of the action, of the excitement and fear, they were all bone-weary, but at his words, the first seeds of triumph started to bloom.

  Caleb reported that their fallen had been wrapped in shrouds and their bodies placed in the cleaning shed for burial tomorrow. Hillsythe confirmed that all the mercenaries had been dispatched during the fighting. The bodies had been collected and stacked outside the gate, covered by a tarpaulin to await burial. Hillsythe’s suggestion that Muldoon, Satterly, and Winton should dig all the graves was met with unanimous approval.

  Lachlan’s and Kit’s teams had resecured the gates and closed the gap behind the women’s hut. Harriet reported that they had food enough to feed everyone for several meals, as well as jerky and hard biscuits for the trek to the coast. Dixon confirmed that they’d redistributed the weapons taken from the mercenaries to those captives who knew how to use them.

  The Frobisher crews, officers as well as sailors, had retreated to sleep in their already established camps in the jungle, leaving their captains and their ladies, and their injured who were resting in the medical hut, within the palisade, along with those previously held captive.

  Lascelle had been one of the last to join the circle. He listened to the other reports, then said, “We have one issue yet to address.” Across the fire pit, he met Caleb’s gaze and smiled. “You did too excellent a job, my friend. Dubois is not yet dead.” Looking at the others, Lascelle explained, “He is dying, but slowly. So very, very slowly and in agony, too, but”—he shrugged in typical Gallic fashion—“I do not think he will die within the next hours. So what do you wish to do with him?” He directed the question around the circle, to all the captives present.

  They’d all suffered under Dubois; Royd waited to hear their decision.

  After several less-than-feasible suggestions, Hillsythe asked Lascelle if he had any thoughts.

  Lascelle’s answering smile was cold. What he suggested had a similar tone and was hailed by all as eminently fitting.

  As Fanshawe put it, “That will be his worst nightmare come true.”

  And so it was that Dubois, tied but not gagged, was carted by the captives into the mine. They tossed him on the ground at the far end of what they called the second tunnel.

  Royd stood to one side and watched as Dixon, his face like stone, tossed a pail of water over Dubois, reviving him.

  Dubois blinked, then weakly shook the water from his eyes. They all waited, watching, as he looked around, as his gaze focused and he realized where he was...

  “No!” The word was weak.

  In a panic, eyes wide, Dubois frantically looked around, fighting his bonds. “No—you can’t leave me here.”

  “We can,” Hillsythe stated. “And we are.”

  Dubois started to gibber.

  Isobel, her hand in Royd’s, tugged, and he turned, and together, they walked out of the mine.

  Declan and Edwina, Robert and Aileen, and Caleb and Katherine followed, with the rest of the adult captives trooping behind.

  Dubois’s wails, weak and incoherent, followed them into the night.

  The ex-captives retreated to their hammocks in the huts. Robert, Aileen, Declan, Edwina, Isobel, and Royd headed for the bunk beds in the barracks. Royd hung back and let the others go in. When Isobel returned to the doorway and arched a brow at him, he said, “Choose a bed. I’m going to do a last circuit.”

  She held his gaze for an instant, then nodded.

  He went down the steps and walked to the gate. He tested it, more out of habit than in any expectation it would fall. Then he walked around the compound in a counterclockwise direction, turning down unnecessary lanterns as he passed them. All that was left of the supply hut was a heap of charred timbers and smoldering embers. Lascelle had apologized to Caleb over how long it had taken for the fire to get going, but the Frenchman’s distraction had proved more effective than anyone had imagined it would.

  After glancing at the area where Caleb and Dubois had fought, Royd walked on. He paused in the open doorway of the medical hut and listened, but other than occasional snuffles and a lot of snores, all seemed settled.

  Ahead lay the ore piles, with several lanterns trained on the prisoners so that the guards, sitting in relative comfort on logs in the nearby shadows, could easily keep an eye on them.

  All five prisoners were awake. They shifted, unable to get comfortable against the piles of rough rock.

  When they saw him walking out of the shadows toward them, they all stilled.

  Halting just outside the circle of bright light, he scanned their faces. Winton would be the easiest to induce to talk. Muldoon, too, wouldn’t be a hard nut to crack. Satterly... Royd knew too little of the man to judge.

  As for Ross-Courtney and Neill, Royd was under no illusions; neither man was likely to speak. Unless he missed his guess, both had realized that th
eir only hope of escaping the fate that now loomed lay in admitting nothing and saying as little as they could. Nevertheless, he fixed his gaze on the older men and arched a brow. “Well? Are you ready to change your tune?”

  Ross-Courtney glared, then pointedly looked away.

  Neill glanced at Ross-Courtney, and after a moment, said, “We might be forced to remain your prisoners, but we will only speak with the relevant authorities.”

  Royd waited, but Neill didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes.

  Royd smiled; neither Neill nor Ross-Courtney had any idea of Royd’s standing with the “relevant authorities.”

  “Very well.” He turned away. “We’ll see how you feel in the morning.”

  Did they but know it, his last sentence was directed at Satterly, Muldoon, and Winton. Digging graves and burying the dead—men who were dead because of what they had caused to happen—would shake the three more than any words.

  Royd continued his circuit. He paused at the entrance to the mine; cocking his head, he listened, and from the depths heard a pitiable whimper. Dubois’s penance had not yet ended.

  After quitting the mine and turning down the lanterns along the front of the men’s hut, Royd passed the fire pit, the fire now reduced to ashes, and finally walked up the barracks’ steps.

  All was quiet and still inside. He located Isobel more by instinct than sight. She was fast asleep. He considered an empty bed nearby, then looked down at her again.

  Then he bent, rolled her onto her side, and slid into the bed behind her.

  He closed his eyes, sighed, and his senses fell into a void.

  * * *

  Late the next morning, the compound’s gates were swung wide, and with Kate’s hand in his, Gerry beside him, and the other two older boys on Kate’s other side, Caleb marched out and took the path to the lake.

  At breakfast, Annie, Gemma, and Mary had nominated the spot where they’d waited with the children as the nicest around for the final resting place of Wattie Watson and Simon Finn. Hillsythe and Dixon had performed a quick survey, then Hillsythe, assisted by several of the Frobisher quartermasters who had returned to the compound, had marched Satterly, Muldoon, and Winton to the spot and handed them shovels.