Wind and the Sea

by Canham, Marsha

  Adrian swayed unsteadily again and took a measured breath. “I have wondered. Indeed, I have spent most of the night wondering.”

  “And to what lengths would you be prepared to go in order to find out who betrayed you?”

  Ballantine could not think clearly. He could not see his way past the sudden swirl of dizziness that left his mouth even drier than before. Sweat drenched his face; the salt stung his scrapes and burned his eyes. His hands were trembling and his body was so cold and wet, he could feel his belly twisting from the effort it was taking to remain standing upright.

  “Nothing to say? No witty rebuttals?”

  Ballantine swallowed with difficulty. The room lurched and took a slow revolution. He spread his feet farther apart to counteract the whirling pinwheels of light, but the chains caught him up, and a tremendous shudder made the pain inside his head explode throughout his body.

  Courtney moved instinctively to catch him before he crashed forward onto the floor. His weight nearly took her down with him, but she managed to balance him long enough to steer him into a chair. Once there, his eyes closed, and his head rolled to one side in utter exhaustion.

  Courtney stared down at him, at a loss what to do so. She could call Davey Dunn—no doubt he had his ear bolted to the door anyway. But Davey was short on sympathy and downright barren when it came to compassion. He would sooner drag the lieutenant away by the heels than take the time to help him.

  “Don’t you dare pass out on me,” she warned, her voice unsteady, as she ran to the sideboard and poured a glass of rum. She brought it back to where he was sitting and pressed the cup into his hands, forcibly curling his fingers around the sides to keep hold.

  Adrian's teeth were clenched, but still chattering.

  "Drink," she ordered. "Before you shiver yourself right out of the damned chair."

  His hands were shaking so badly now, the rum splashed over the lip of the cup as he tried to lift it. Courtney puffed out another soundless expletive and helped him steady it long enough to take several deep swallows.

  His skin was pale beneath the tan, clammy to the touch, and although the sweat ran in shiny streaks down his temples and throat, the tips of his fingernails were blue. She hesitated another moment, then laid her hand across his brow. Whether it was the soft groan he gave in response to her touch, or the fact she had never imagined to see him so completely vulnerable and fragile, something caused the knot inside her to ease. She felt the anger and the need to hurt him fade. In their stead rose a surprising instinct to hold him, to soothe him, to cradle his head to her breast and take away the pain.

  As she held the cup of rum to his mouth again, she curled her lower lip between her teeth and brushed aside the sodden locks of sun-bleached hair that clung to his brow. The gash over his temple was about five inches long. If the raw edges were not cleaned and sewn properly, it would leave a brutish scar.

  The wound in her upper arm throbbed—a sharp reminder that without Dr. Rutger’s expert ministrations, her arm might have become infected, or gangrenous.

  With a grudging sigh, she fetched a needle and thread from Garrett's sea chest. Stitching wounds was a common skill learned early on board a ship, and she was tying a final knot in the thread when she realized the steely gray eyes were open and studying her.

  “I see why Matt said you were a great help to him in the surgery."

  “You can hardly live the kind of life I have without learning a thing or two about treating wounds.”

  His eyes darkened slightly. “And yet half of it you spent dressed in silks and satins. Quite a change, I would say, and one that took a great deal of courage and conviction to make.”

  The color in Courtney’s cheeks ebbed, then returned a deeper shade. Apparently he had not been asleep after all when she had talked about her past. She straightened and retreated a step, not trusting either the look in his eye or the proximity of his body to hers. She knew his hands were bound and immobile, his movements sorely restricted, and yet she felt more defenceless than she ever had before.

  Stabbing the needles into the shank of thread, she replaced it on the desk. She refused to look directly at him, but she could feel his eyes, like warm hands, running over her body.

  "Thank you," he said quietly.

  "For what?"

  "For sewing my face back together. For the rum. And...for the opportunity to make amends."

  "Amends?" She frowned, instantly suspicious.

  "I realize it counts for little now, and likely sounds as if I am not entirely sincere, but I do regret what happened to your friends, Seagram and Nilsson. I am not saying they did not deserve to forfeit their lives for what they did, you know as well as I do that the punishment for mutiny or insurrection on board a ship is death. Jennings delights in cruelty, but even he surpassed his own worst moments. But I should have stepped in sooner and stopped it."

  Courtney glanced up, expecting to read mockery behind the soft apology, but there was none and the lack of it completely disarmed her. Her cheeks burned crimson, and her breasts were suddenly so sensitive to the contact of the cambric shirt that she shivered.

  Adrian frowned slightly, noting her reaction. The apology had come from the depths of his weariness, surprising even himself. He had not consciously tried to undermine her composure, but he could see that he had touched a nerve. He had glimpsed a tentativeness like this once before, in his cabin the morning after she had accused him of raping her. While the charge itself had appalled him, he had accepted it because he could think of no reason why she would lie about such a thing, and because he had only the dimmest of recollections to call upon for a defense. Thinking about it afterward, he could not quite bring himself to believe that she could have been forced so easily. She knew how to fight, how to defend herself, especially against a staggering drunk.

  What if he had not actually raped her, if she had gone to his bed willingly? It would mean there was a way through the barriers she had so determinedly erected around her emotions over the years. What if he could wear down even more of those barriers? She had asked him to what lengths he was prepared to go, and the answer was clear to him now: any lengths it took to find a weakness and take advantage. He had a hundred and eighty men relying on him to find a way out of this disaster.

  “You win, Irish,” he said quietly.

  “What do you mean?"

  “Exactly what I said. I am tired and I hurt like hell and I do not want to see Matt put through any more than he has already suffered. You win. I will be your dutiful servant.” He saw the instant tension and wariness in her stance and was careful to add, “But only until we arrive in Tripoli. After that, I have no intention of being your slave, or anyone else’s.”

  “If you are thinking of trying to escape once you get your strength back—"Courtney stopped and bit her lip. Of course that was exactly what he was planning. It was what she had planned from the moment she had been led onto the deck of the Eagle.

  “Yes? You are going to help me?”

  Courtney almost snorted. “Not likely. And if you try it while you are in my presence, I will stop you dead. Do we understand one another?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Courtney strode to the cabin door. She flung it wide, and Davey Dunn came to an immediate, bristling attention.

  “Eh? I did not hear ye call.”

  Courtney’s eyes were dark and unreadable as she glanced toward the lieutenant. “The smell of Yankee pride is becoming oppressive, Davey. Take the lieutenant topside. He is so desperate to know what is happening with his men, let him find out firsthand. Let him haul away their slops and clean their festering wounds. Maybe he will learn a little humility.”

  It was not the kind of punishment Dunn would have chosen, but he nodded and yanked on Adrian’s ropes, bringing him to his feet with a grunt of pain.

  “I ‘ope ye have a strong gut, boy. From how I see it, there is enough work for ten healthy men and enough limbs partin’ company with their owners to keep the e
els happy for a week.”

  Adrian took the shove between his shoulder blades without balking. He glanced at Courtney as he passed, but she kept her eyes averted and her mouth pinched firmly shut.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Matthew Rutger dragged a trembling hand across his forehead and sat back numbly on his heels. The man stretched out in front of him was dead. He had made no sound, had not moved or wakened out of the coma that had set in after the transfer from the Eagle to the Falconer. The name was Peerce, and he and his shattered limbs would become one more pile of cleanly picked bones on the bottom of the bay.

  Matt had been awake all night, doing what he could for the wounded members of the Eagle’s crew. He had no medicines, no bandages other than what he could tear from clothing, no food, and only the rainwater they were able to trap in canvas pockets for drinking. He wanted to lay down and die himself. He was tired and discouraged. His back had progressed through every stage of agony imaginable and beyond to some that were not. He had managed to clothe himself with the pickings from men who no longer needed earthly comforts, and while his own lacerations no longer bled, there were stains from a dozen torn limbs soiling his sleeves and breeches. His face was pale, the skin drawn taut over his cheekbones. His eyes shared and reflected the pain of every man around him.

  Matt sighed and covered Peerce’s face with a scrap of sail. The rain had stopped and the sun was struggling to break free of the clouds, but the air was so dense with humidity and mosquitoes, it seemed they were only trading one hell for another.

  “You!”

  Matt looked up and blinked uncertainly. The corsairs had erected a barrier of crates and broken timbers around the prisoners, penning them up like animals.

  “You with the striped back! Pay a mind here!”

  Matt followed the direction of the shout and recognized the wiry corsair who had led Adrian to the shrouds. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him when he saw the tall figure standing behind Dunn, but then he found his voice and staggered clumsily to his feet.

  “Adrian!”

  “I'm told ye been caterwaulin’ for help, Yankee,” Dunn spat. “Well, here ye are.”

  Matthew picked his way over the bodies of groaning men to stand at the edge of the pen while Ballantine was pushed through.

  “These men need shelter," he said to Dunn. "And food. For the love of God, can you not see they are dying? A cup of broth, some unguent for the burns...?”

  Pftt. A gob of yellow spittle hit the deck at Rutger's feet.

  “Stow yer whinin’, Yankee,” Dunn growled. “Or I'll be doctorin’ ye gut to gizzard for fishbait.”

  He shoved Adrian forward and spat once more onto the deck before he closed the gap in the barricade and strode away. Matt’s shoulders sagged as if every muscle had been drained of substance.

  “Are these all the wounded?” Ballantine whispered, trying to take in the horror of the pen.

  “Twenty-three,” Matt said grimly. “Six died through the night; Peerce went a few moments ago. Or it could have been an hour ago...two..." He brushed a hand across his forehead. "I do not know anymore.”

  Adrian looked at his friend. Matt was obviously nearing the limits of his endurance. They both were, but neither could afford the luxury of collapsing.

  “We can sit over there,” Matt said and led the way to an overturned crate. “Anything damaged besides your head?”

  "Apart from the muscles in my shoulders that feel as though they have been torn out of the sockets—" Adrian held up his hands, which were still bound, showing wrists that were chafed raw. “Can you help me get these off?”

  Matt thumbed the thick cords with fingers that had little strength to budge the tight knots. “It should only take me an hour or so to chew through them,” he muttered disgustedly.

  “Check the slit pocket in my breeches. I put my razor there yesterday, before all hell broke loose. As far as I know it is still there.”

  “It is still here,” Matt cried and produced the slim, folded blade. He glanced around quickly, to see if they were being observed by any of the guards, then began to saw at the ropes. While he did, he peered curiously at the neat row of stitching on Adrian’s head.

  “The girl,” Adrian explained. “She sewed me up.”

  “Courtney? She is alive?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Ahh—” The bindings parted, and Ballantine was able to rub gingerly at the torn flesh on his wrists. “She might not have been if I could have wrapped my hands around her throat.”

  “This was not any of her doing.”

  “She wished for it hard enough. How many men do they have guarding this pen?

  “Four or five, why?”

  “Armed, naturally.”

  “Head to toe.”

  “And the Eagle. Any word from the rest of the crew?”

  “None. Did you really expect there to be?”

  “I hardly expect them to be bowing their heads and shuffling around like beaten dogs!”

  “What do you expect them to do? Get themselves killed? They are beaten down, unarmed and locked in the hold. Give them a day, at least, to start thinking straight again.”

  “They intend to sail us into Tripoli, Matt. They plan to tow the Eagle there and hand her over to Karamanli. Do you know what that will do to Commodore Preble’s plans for a swift end to the war?”

  “I am still at a loss as to what you think we can do about it," Matt said quietly, glancing around at the wounded men. "You and I are pretty much the only ones on board here that can still stand up to piss."

  "Then it is up to you and I to think of something,” Adrian said grimly. His gaze strayed to the battered hulk of the Eagle. It was moored less than fifty yards from the Falconer, and he could clearly see signs of activity both above and below decks. “If only we had some way of communicating with the rest of the men.”

  ~~

  The Eagle’s marine sergeant-at-arms, Andrew Rowntree, stared out across the narrow gap of water that divided the two ships and stifled the urge to simply lean his face up to the shattered planks and shout across the distance. At twenty years of age, he was bristling at the indignity of being taken captive by a scurrilous crew of pirates. He had long since decided that he could give his life in no better service than for his country, thus his own personal safety was not a factor in deciding what to do next. What dampened his spirits somewhat was the knowledge that not all of his crewmates felt the same way.

  They were closely guarded, beaten at the first sign of insubordination. They had so far been denied food or water so that they could not regain any of the strength they had lost over the past twenty-four hours. The fact that the wounded were hostages on board the corsair's ship to ensure the Americans’ cooperation was a major deterrent as was the deliberate isolation of the Eagle’s senior officers. Lieutenant Ballantine was on board the Falconer, as was Jennings as far as they could determine. Second Lieutenant Falworth had been removed at dawn and escorted across, which left two junior midshipmen—one of whom was crouched in a corner, mumbling and weeping—Angus MacDonald, and himself holding the only rank above private.

  Without leadership and purpose, the men would lapse into lethargy. There were one hundred and forty-six healthy survivors from one of the best damned warships afloat, and as long as they lived and breathed, Rowntree was not going throw his hands up in surrender. If he could only find a way of communicating with the men on the Falconer. He had seen Lieutenant Ballantine cut down from the rigging earlier, and while he had looked in terrible condition, the fact that he was still alive offered some hope.

  Andrew felt a firm hand on his arm and looked up to see the Scot, Angus MacDonald, beside him. Rowntree was leaning against the bulkhead, his face bathed in the light that filtered through a hole in the outer skin of the hull. The rest of the storeroom was in darkness save for a single greasy oil lantern that cast more smoke than light. The air was pungent with the smell of crowded bodies. The brimming slop barrel had not been emptied s
ince their incarceration, and it added its own cloying rankness to the shadows.

  “Ye should give yersel’ a chance at some sleep, laddie,” MacDonald scolded gently. “Ye were awake all night, twitchin' an' turnin' like the Devil himsel’ was at yer heels."

  “I dare not sleep, Angus. God knows, I have tried, but every time I close my eyes...”

  “Aye, Laddie. Aye, I ken how ye feel. I have seen the same man die in mine eyes a hundred times.”

  Andrew sighed. Angus had earned a burned forearm in the shelling of Snake Island, bruised ribs and a nasty cut on the side of his head from the beach fighting, a grazed shoulder during the attempted breakout on the Eagle, and a crisscross of raw pink weals on his back from the flogging. He had added a complement of bruises and scrapes during the sea battle with the Falconer; and as a final insult, had had his pride and glory—the full bushy moustache—singed from his upper lip while dousing a fire on deck.

  “Angus, why are you not flat on your back?” Rowntree asked in awe.

  “Ach! It would take more’n a few wee stings to put a MacDonald under. Come along now, the swine brought us food. It is nay much by the smell o’ it, but ye’d best eat it anyway, to keep up yer strength."

  “Strength for what, Angus?” Rowntree sighed wearily. “Strength to rebuild our ship so these blackhearts can sail her into Tripoli as a prize? The Pasha will paint her with yellow and green frescoes and have paper lanterns hanging from her masts. If only...” He turned and gazed out the damaged hull again. “If only there was some way to get in touch with the others. Lieutenant Ballantine, for instance. If we could just speak to him, get to him somehow.”

  “Wi’ these black necks peerin’ down our gullets every two turns? Ye’d have a better chance at postin’ a letter an' seein’ it delivered by packet.”