I heard MacIsaac calling out orders from his spot near the side of the binnacle and the ship's wheel, but couldn't make heads or tails of them. I was still reeling from Ben's revelations and from the anticipation of a fight. I might be called upon to kill someone today. I might be killed myself. Almost as an afterthought before opening my eyes, I commended my soul into God's care and keeping. I felt lighter instantly, and everything around me came into sharp contrast. Colors were more vibrant, sounds louder, scents stronger. Whatever happened, I knew that if I should be killed, I would be reunited with my family in Heaven.
I checked my belt once more, feeling for the small bag Ben had given me when he'd presented my pistol. In it were extra balls, flints, and a powder measure. I also had a powder horn hanging from my belt, and as I touched it, I replayed the steps necessary to load a pistol. Ben had made me practice over and over until I could do it quickly and accurately. He promised that the knowledge and skill would keep me safe and I trusted him.
The Jezebel came about hard to starboard, either preparing for boarding or to fire our guns at the other ship. MacIsaac called out to Duquesne, the boatswain, to raise the black as we sailed still closer to the Nonsuch.
A spotter, who was high in the portside mizzen shrouds watching the other ship, called out, “She's got swivel guns, Captain! Fore and aft both.”
MacIsaac's eyes narrowed and his face went hard. “Are they manned?” he called back.
“Aye, captain! Pointing right at us.”
“Open the ports. Prepare to fire, but do not fire until my command.”
I craned my neck and looked over the top edge of the gunwale at the Nonsuch. I could just barely see heads sticking out above the edges of her own gunwales. Somewhere, Jamie Abbot was probably sitting just like me, maybe even praying just like me. As I thought about it, I realized that most of the men were probably in the same position. They were not hardened pirates like my crew; they were merchant sailors, probably press-ganged in Portsmouth or Bristol and held against their will, forced to work in squalid conditions for little or no pay. They were no better than galley slaves. My regard for MacIsaac grew even more; by raising the black—a sign that he was prepared to offer quarter—he had ensured many of those sailors' lives would be spared. But only if the Nonsuch's captain made the choice to surrender.
I prayed even harder for God to guide the Nonsuch's captain towards the right decision.
A quiet settled over the ships as we each waited for the other to act. I could hear the men to either side of me breathing—quick, shallow breaths that did little to calm themselves. Everywhere I looked, faces were drawn in worry or they wore expressionless masks, as each man prepared themselves for battle. Hands reflexively clenched and released weapons, gripped rosaries, or fingered other charms. The air was thick with the stench of fear-sweat and a ripple of terror swept through the decks, raising the hairs on my arms and at the nape of my neck. All eyes were on the other ship, waiting for them to strike their colors and raise a white flag.
A thunderous boom was followed immediately by an angry roaring sound as grapeshot rent the air. The deck across from me exploded in a shower of wood. Men screamed as slivers of the decks at least four inches long embedded themselves in exposed flesh or left behind jagged tears. One sailor lost his leg below the knee and another his entire right arm.
All around me confusion reigned and my mind went blank, overloaded by screams of pain and anger, shouted orders, the color of blood, the stench of burned flesh and gunpowder. I distantly heard MacIsaac deliver the order to fire just before our full battery unloaded against the side of the fluyt, the barrage tearing huge gaping holes into the hull above the waterline.
“Close with them, Mr. Harris,” MacIsaac ordered the helmsman. “And pray the bastard surrenders. Reload!”
I stood up finally, icy daggers of terror punching through my guts, and leaned over the gunwale, puking up what little I had in my stomach. I felt hands grabbing my arms and pulling me back down to the deck. A voice shouted in my ear, sounding like an angry, buzzing bee. I slapped it away and the hands shook me, rapping my head solidly against the gunwale. My vision swam and the edges of the world went a little gray. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and looked up. Ben's bloody face swam just before me. There was a ragged gash across his brow and blood was cascading down his face.
He asked a question, something about my well-being, before his hands moved briskly, with business-like precision, over my body. I tried to shove him away but he held onto me, staring into my eyes. Finally he nodded, clapped me on the shoulder, and ran into the chaos midships.
“Range?” MacIsaac called out.
“One hundred yards and closing quickly!” Duquesne replied.
“Prepare to board!” Men on the main deck below me produced ropes attached to large hooks with wicked-looking prongs at the end.
A few moments later, there was a bone-jarring thud as the hulls of the two ships collided. The men with the ropes and hooks climbed up to the gangway and stood balanced on the gunwales, and threw the ropes across the small gulf between the ships. Once the hooks were secure in the other ship's sides, pirates began pouring over the Jezebel, some jumping from the top of the gunwales, some crawling through the open gunports, some climbing the ropes.
The pirates and the merchant sailors squared off against each other, weapons pointed at their enemies, eyes narrowed both out of anger and against the smoke and grit in the air. Neither bunch looked anxious to start killing, though I had no doubt they would if pressed into action. The decks of the Nonsuch's were a mess of broken, bleeding bodies and gaping holes where our cannonballs had ripped straight through. Men moaned and screamed and I felt light-headed again and swallowed reflexively against another rising tide of bile in my throat.
I tried to sort through the crowd, looking desperately for Ben or Jamie, but I couldn't see either man through all the haze and smoke and my thick tears. I stayed behind on the Jezebel, watching as someone lowered a plank across the two ships, resting it on the gunwales.
A slightly frumpy figure in a gray yak's hair wig, brocade coat, and fine leather shoes emerged from the center of the crowd. MacIsaac walked across the plank, his hands resting on the butt of his pistol and the pommel of his sword. Despite his common clothes and his lack of a wig, he cut a more dashing, more noble figure than did the other captain, who probably was noble-born.
“Are you the captain of this ship?” MacIsaac called down to the man in the wig.
“I am. Sir David Wyndham Edward Tennant, Baron Glenconner,” the wig said with a courtly bow. “And you are?”
“Captain Sebastian MacIsaac, late of Nassau, New Providence,” he answered, exaggerating his Scottish accent, no doubt to drive home his nationality to the English baron. “Do I have your surrender, Glenconner?”
“My men will be safe?”
“Your men will be given the choice to join my crew or be put ashore in the next safe port we come to.” MacIsaac paused for a moment and then seemingly off-hand asked, “Tell me, did you order my ship to be fired upon?”
“I did, sir.” The wig seemed proud of his decision.
Without hesitation, MacIsaac drew his pistol and fired it at the Nonsuch's captain. The ball struck him square between the eyes and he collapsed to the deck. I gasped and covered my mouth in shock. Tears filled my eyes and I turned away and sank to the decks, hidden from the crew behind the gunwales. Try as I might, I was unable to rid my mind of the sight of the baron's eyes as he died. He looked so shocked and betrayed—much the same as I was feeling.
XVI
On board the Jezebel, Caribbean Sea
June, 1716
The sound of booted footsteps stomping over the deck drew me out of my misery. The crew was busy transferring sailors, goods, and cleaning up and repairing both ships. And I was hiding, shirking my responsibilities. I felt guilty but didn't stir. Hamilton would be sorting through the cargo and directing the crew to bring aboard the most valuable thing
s and leave the rest behind. Finally, I drew myself to my feet and headed to the gangway, a hole in my heart where my good opinion of MacIsaac had been. His betrayal tasted of ashes in my mouth.
I saw Ben still on the Nonsuch. He had found Jamie, who appeared to be physically fine. Ben saw me and nodded once before he turned Jamie away from the Jezebel, hiding me from the boy's view and talking to him as they walked down to the lower decks, no doubt to help offload cargo.
“Mr. Jones.” I turned and saw MacIsaac standing behind me, a look of relief on his face. “I had worried—”
“You heartless, cruel murderer!” I spat at him, my venom loud enough that heads swiveled towards me, looks of astonishment on the men's faces. “He had surrendered! How could you be so cold? You're no different than Graves!”
MacIsaac's eyes narrowed and went hard, flashing dangerously, and his ire rose, turning his already-ruddy skin even darker. His hand curled around my upper arm, fingers like steel, and he dragged me forcibly down to the main deck and into his cabin, which was tucked away beneath the quarterdeck. He threw me against the desk and slammed the door shut behind him, sliding home to the bolt to ensure privacy.
I stood with the edge of the desk pressed against the backs of my thighs, my hands rubbing at the sore spots on my arms where he'd dug his fingers in. I watched him warily as he stalked back and forth in front of me, reminding me of a lion I'd seen at the royal menagerie in Osterly. They both had the same look of slow-boiling rage that threatened to erupt into violence at any moment. I shrank back, wishing I knew where I'd dropped my pistol and cutlass.
He stopped pacing and turned to stare at me. His eyes went soft. “Stop it,” the captain said, his voice gentle. “Stop cowering from me. I'm not Graves. I won't hurt you. I would never raise a hand against you, Loreley.”
“You shot Glenconner,” I reminded him. “Without provocation or reason.”
He was suddenly standing in front of me, his chest pressed against my body as he leaned forward, bending me over the desk backwards. “Without reason?” he said viciously through clenched teeth. “Without provocation? Is that what you truly think of me?”
I stared up at him, tears flooding my eyes, unable to speak through the knot of emotions in my throat. He looked down at me for a beat longer and then straightened, stepping away, giving me room to breathe. I brushed angrily at the tears that were streaming down my cheeks and sniffed. I hated crying and I seemed to have done more of it in the past six months than in the past sixteen years combined.
“That dovie captain fired on my ship,” he said once I'd reined myself in. “He may not give a toss about his own crew, but I do about mine. He killed three of them and injured five more, two seriously and permanently.” He took a deep breath and slowly released it. “He killed without reason or provocation. Not me.” He stared hard at me, skewering me to the desk with the weight of his gaze.
“I'm a new captain, Loreley, a new captain on a ship that carries Graves's reputation.” His tone changed, become softer, almost pleading with me. “Gideon was ruthless and cold—all the things you accused me of being. I am not that man. But I will become that man if it means protecting my crew. Do you understand?” I nodded, a curt angry gesture, and he shook his head. “I need to hear you say it,” he said as he stepped closer to me, stopping six inches or less away.
“I understand,” I answered. “You killed him to send a message.”
“I forget sometimes how bright you are,” he said, one corner of his mouth rising and falling in a brief smile. “Yes, to send a message. More than half of the Nonsuch's sailors want safe passage and they will carry the story of what happened here today. Maybe other captains will hear it and think twice about firing on the Jezebel. Men will live because one useless English brat died.”
I nodded again and the tension level in the room dropped. I exhaled harshly and relaxed my shoulders. MacIsaac reached out and splayed his fingers against my cheek, cupping it briefly, tenderly, before he turned and unbolted the door. “Clean yourself up and get topside,” he said over his shoulder. “There's still cargo that needs shifting.” He left, closing the door gently behind him. I crossed the cabin to the ewer and basin and was surprised to find water ready. I washed my face, scrubbing away the tears and wondered just what, exactly, MacIsaac's parting gesture meant. I raised my hand to my cheek and despite scrubbing at it, I could still feel the heat of his hand resting there.
* * *
We took twenty-four hogshead of raw sugar cane, ten casks of molasses, five casks of rum, fourteen kegs of gunpowder, and various other goods like calico fabric, salted pork and fish, salt, tea, and a case of sherry from the Nonsuch. It was exactly as the whore in Spanish Town said—a fat prize that Mr. Hamilton figured would bring in at least seventy-four thousand silver reales—roughly two thousand pounds—an amount that was roughly equivalent to my father's income for a year. After the men who had lost limbs were compensated, the rest of the take would be distributed amongst the sixty-five member crew. My very rough calculations showed that the crew would each be receiving approximately five hundred-twenty reales. It was a hefty amount, more money than many of these men could have earned in a whole year had they worked on naval ships or even merchantmen like the Nonsuch. Most of them would spend it immediately after we anchored. I longed for an account at the Bank of England.
Supper that night was a relaxed affair. Most of the crew were worn out from the fight and from shifting cargo, so there was little talk and no music. Hamilton and MacIsaac were thick as thieves, their heads together over what looked like account ledgers all night. They spared no attention to the rest of us, something that was strange. Usually, the captain and quartermaster chatted with the crew, sharing food and drink, and occasionally even a song.
After supper, Ben and I retired to our cabin, to get some rest before we took middle watch. Neither of us bothered taking off our boots or breeches. We just tumbled into our cots and blew out the lanterns that were suspended from the ceiling above us. The silence was too thick and I couldn't turn off my mind. I shifted in the cot so I was facing Ben. I could just barely make out the humped shape of his body beneath a blanket. “What happens to the cargo now?” I asked him.
“Captain try to find a fence for it,” Ben replied. He sounded exhausted and I felt slightly guilty for keeping him awake. He'd had a rough day. The Nonsuch had employed a doctor who had been able to stitch up his head, but the man's hands were shaky, either from fear or drink, and Ben would have a terrible scar as a result.
“What's a fence?” I asked.
The sound of Ben's sigh reminded me of an angry bull I'd once seen. I bit my lip to keep from giggling at the vision of a horned Ben charging me from across a pasture. “Someone who buy stolen cargo,” he said, annoyance definite in his tone, “and sell it to legitimate merchants in other ports. Now go to sleep.”
“I can't. I have too many questions.” I paused for a moment. “Will we go back to Nassau? Is that where the fence is? Wouldn't that be dangerous for me?”
“Yes, there be one in Nassau, though he be a greedy bastard. Captain will probably take us to Cap-Français. Fence there is much better. If you won't go to sleep, will you at least stop talking to me?”
“Sorry,” I said and rose from my cot and left the cabin. I knew if I was forced to remain there, I'd get restless and annoy Ben with more questions. So to spare us both, I headed up to the fo'c's'le and climbed out along the bowsprit, settling down just above the figurehead. It was one of the prettier examples I'd seen—a bare-breasted woman with long black hair and a serene expression. She held a lantern on a chain in her outstretched hand. The lantern was lit tonight, though it made little difference in the inky darkness through which we sailed.
I liked sitting on the bowsprit. No one else would chance it; they were all too afraid of falling in and getting swept under the hull. I had all the privacy in the world, something that went at a premium on the ship. It gave me a quiet place to think, somewhere I wouldn'
t constantly face the pressures of trying to keep up the ruse of being a man. I was thankful for the quiet, peaceful solitude.
I straddled the bowsprit like the back of the horse and twisted my hands in the stays and stared up at the moon. It was the same moon as I'd seen in London; it was the same moon that kept me company when I was in the brothel in Nassau. I was the only thing that was different. I'd been away from England for a year now, and had spent most of that time on board one ship or another. I was no longer the brash, spoiled girl I'd been when the Resolution sank. I was stronger now, both physically and mentally. I'd finally grown up. It was amazing to me what humanity could overcome if forced to.
The stars looked so different here. From my place at the front of the ship, I had a perfect, unobstructed view of constellations I hadn't heard of a year ago. My favorites were still present in the skies above my head—Virgo, Libra, Hercules—but they had been joined by new groups. Corvus and Canis Major were the two that had stuck out for me, the crow and the dog. They were such commonplace animals, familiar and comforting, and I'd clung to the stars in Nassau, a place where everything was so strange and foreign.
“Which one is your favorite?” MacIsaac's voice came out of the gloom behind me. I turned to look over my shoulder and found him standing at the gunwales, looking out into the night.
“Which star?” I asked. He made a grunt of agreement and I turned back to point to my favorite and said, “That one. Canis Major.” I turned back to him. “Which is yours?”
He pointed in the same direction as I had. “Pyxis Nautica. The mariner's compass.” He looked at me then. “Would you come down from there? You're making me very nervous.”
I chuckled and rose to my feet. Holding onto the stays so I didn't further contribute to his poor health, I climbed down to the deck and stood next to him at the railing. “Better?”
The Jezebel's Daughter Page 12
