Wind and the Sea

by Canham, Marsha

  After Shaw had left the cabin, Courtney had tugged and pried and tried to oil it free, but the knuckle was swollen and the ring refused to budge. She tried it again, under Davey Dunn’s scrutiny, but the loathsome thing refused to leave her finger.

  With a sigh of resignation she looked up at Dunn. Her gaze flicked past his shoulder as she saw a shadow moving up swiftly behind him. Before she could gasp a warning, and half a heartbeat before she recognized Adrian Ballantine, he brought the barrel of a gun down in an arc across the back of the corsair’s thick neck.

  Chapter Nineteen

  With a grunt, Dunn slumped forward, his eyes popping, his jaw gaping in surprise and pain.

  Courtney jumped to her feet, stunned. “What are you doing? Why did you—?”

  “Sorry,” Adrian said grimly. “And believe me, I am sorry about this too, but there is no other way.”

  Courtney saw the blur of his fist too late to avoid it. It struck her jaw in a crosscut, snapping her head back and rendering her unconscious almost immediately. Adrian moved quickly to sweep her into his arms before she collapsed to the deck and, after a hasty glance behind him, he slung her over his shoulder and hastened to the rail. He swung a long leg over the oak and stole a precious moment to distribute her weight more securely before he slithered down the anchor cable to the water. She floated free until he was able to turn and tuck an arm across her chest. He kicked out strongly and swiftly, making very little noise or disturbance on the surface of the water as he towed her away from the looming hull of the Falconer.

  Within ten feet of shore, his feet scraped the sandy bottom, and he was able to stand and lift Courtney’s body in his arms as he stumbled onto the beach. He ducked into the long rushes and paused to catch his breath while he glanced warily back at the two moored ships.

  Courtney moaned softly in his arms, and he looked down at her. The starlight was dusting her face; the wet silk of her shirt had parted to reveal the pale skin beneath. He did not want to stop and think about what he had done or why he had done it. He had not even consciously thought through the action. He only knew he wanted her off the ship and safe. Whether she thanked him for it later or hated him, that would be up to the Fates to decide.

  Gathering the slender body close to his chest, he hunched over and ran with her through the dense bush, his footsteps carrying them toward the thicker curtain of trees.

  ~~

  Sergeant Andrew Rowntree and Corporal Angus MacDonald sat by the torn planks of the hull, their faces anxious as they peered out into the darkness. Andrew chewed nervously on his lower lip, his eyes darting frequently to the older Scot’s face.

  “He should have been here by now. Do you suppose something has gone wrong?”

  Angus sighed expressively. “Ye’re an impatient pup, Andrew, lad. He said he'll be here, and be here he will.”

  Rowntree expelled a breath and nodded. His palms were filmed with the dampness they always had before a battle; his mouth tasted sour. His teeth were coated and gritty, and he wondered if a decent time had lapsed since the last trip he had made to the slops barrel.

  To distract himself, he let his attention wander from the smashed planks to the small, ghostly shadow crouched alongside Angus’s massive bulk. No one had wakened the boy. No one had insisted that Dickie Little take any part in the coming activities, and yet the boy was there. Immovable. The huge dark eyes rarely flicked away from the indistinct outline of the prisoner’s pen on board the Falconer.

  The Scot’s lips moved quietly in a curse.

  “What is it?” Andrew demanded, craning forward.

  “We're about to lose the darkness.”

  “What?”

  “The moon. She's risin’ up like a virgin’s tittie.”

  Sure enough, Andrew did not need to follow the disgusted thrust of Angus’s finger to see where the glistening white curve of the moon was peeping above the rim of palm trees. Ten minutes at most and it would be clear of the obstructing slope and trees, and the cove would no longer be under a protective cloak of blackness.

  “Damnation,” Andrew muttered. “A little luck would have been nice for a change.”

  ~~

  When Ballantine was confident the strips torn from his shirt would hold Courtney securely, he retraced the steps he had taken from the cove and made his way around the semicircle of brush until he was crouched opposite the Eagle. From his vantage point, the Falconer was hidden from his view, but something else was amiss. It took several moments for him to detect the subtle change. The encircling arms of the cove were becoming bathed in moonlight, giving depth and definition to the vegetation, making the palm trees look like a crowd of bent old men standing along the narrow strip of beach.

  Ballantine melted quickly into the shallow water and threaded his way through the undulating weeds until he was waist deep, breast deep, neck deep in the chilling water. With the same care he had taken on his flight with Courtney, he approached the hull of the Eagle, his arms making only the tiniest of wavering ripples on the glass-smooth surface. He had taken the folded razor from his breeches pocket and clamped it between his teeth, but otherwise, he was unarmed. The gun he had stolen from Courtney’s cabin, he had left with her. The powder was wet and useless, and he did not have any to replace it. He would have to rely on Andrew Rowntree’s initiative to have supplied some manner of weaponry to the men on the Eagle.

  It was unthinkable for the American frigate to be towed into Tripoli at the stern of a pirate ship. She was listing heavily, stripped of most of her supplies and armaments; but even so, Ballantine would rather blow her apart at the seams and send her to a fiery death in this hellhole of a cove than subject a fine warship to such an ignoble fate. His men agreed. With the help of Rowntree and MacDonald, a raiding party of handpicked men were willing to fight to the death in order to spare the frigate such an end.

  Ballantine cut through the silvered inkiness of the water, swimming noiselessly to the side of his ship. He treaded water at the baseline and listened for any sign of a wary guard on patrol on the upper deck. He was as yet unable to see the Falconer from this angle, but he could see that the starboard side of the Eagle was already awash in moonlight, and once he rounded the bow, he would be in direct view of anyone glancing toward the frigate.

  He adjusted the handle of the razor more securely between his teeth and followed the protective shadow as far as he could. There was no sign of activity on board the Falconer. No guards’ heads were to be seen as they paced the decks. He had struck the stocky Davey Dunn hard enough to ensure a full night’s sleep, although why he had not just slit the bastard's throat was a mystery. There were at least two other guards he had spotted, but he had not had time to deal with them; not and see Courtney safely on shore at the same time.

  Again he refused to consider his motives for such a foolhardy act. He pulled himself hand over hand along the side of the ship, stopping when the gaping hole in the hull was directly above him. There were no footholds, no convenient cables to use to climb to the ravaged opening. He could not risk a shout, however quiet, nor could he afford to simply hang in the water and hope someone would look out.

  Aiming carefully, he leaned away from the hull and tossed the folded razor in a gentle arc through the blackened gap in the planks. A few seconds he saw a head poke out, then heard scuffling as a wide section of broken timber was removed to make the opening large enough for a man to squeeze through. A rope made of torn and knotted shirts slithered out and plopped into the water.

  “Thank God, sir,” Andrew Rowntree said as he and MacDonald hoisted him through the hole. “You were so late in coming, we thought the worst, of course.”

  “You thought,” Angus interjected gruffly. “And what did I tell ye?”

  The moon touched the old soldier’s face, highlighting the bushy brow and the grim, craggy set to his mouth. A new bandage on his forehead had been added to his collection.

  Adrian grinned, “Angus, you old warhorse, you look like hell.”
<
br />   The Scot arched a brow. “I wouldna’ be throwin’ stones, if I were you.”

  Still grinning, Adrian searched the ring of tense faces until he found one that was paler, more apprehensive than the others. Matt had given him a few quick lessons and Adrian held up his hands to Dickie Little in the manner of a friend greeting a friend, then quickly reassured the fawn-like eyes that Matt was alive and healthy, that he and the men on board the Falconer were behind the night’s mission one hundred percent.

  “Our timing could not have been better,” Adrian said in as loud a whisper as he dared. “Shaw intends to take both ships out of the bay in the morning. This may well be our only chance. Have you managed to find anything useful as weapons?”

  “We scared up a few." Rowntree said, nodding. "Knives mostly. Some broken timbers to use as clubs and truncheons. Not exactly prime weaponry to go up against muskets and pistols.”

  “We have surprise on our side and that counts for a great deal. How many guards are on the hatch?”

  “At least two,” Angus provided. “As well as a bloody great iron bar.”

  Adrian raked the wet locks of tawny hair back from his brow and frowned. “Then we will all be leaving the way I came in. Angus, you will take your party of men to the stern and gain the upper deck by way of the anchor cables.”

  “Aye, sar! We'll nay let ye down!”

  A chorus of quiet, intense “ayes” swelled from the shadows, and Adrian felt a perceptible easing of the burden from his broad shoulders. “Good. Damn good. I am counting on you to take command of the decks long enough to allow the rest of the men to get out and get to shore. If you cannot get to the armory to use gunpowder for the charges, start fires wherever you can. We will burn her into the water if we cannot blow her.”

  “Aye.”

  "Andrew..."

  “Sir?"

  “When I left the Falconer there were at least two more sentries awake and breathing. I need a handful of good men to come back with me, preferably those who are the strongest swimmers. With that blasted moon so bright we will have to cover the distance underwater.”

  “Count on me, sir,” Rowntree volunteered immediately. “Loftus and Kelly are good swimmers. Kowalski belly-aches, but he has the best lungs on board.”

  “Good, because once they get there, they will have to help Matt evacuate the wounded. If it is at all possible, we are going to move every last man off. Unfortunately, those who were the worst off have already made their last swim; but the ones who are left are as eager to get off that damned ship as we are to get them off. Matt has them organized; they just need some able-bodied help over the side."

  "We are not going to try to take the ship, sir?"

  Ballantine had anguished over the question himself. "They have us badly outnumbered. We have no weapons other than surprise on our side, and as long as those wounded men are on board the Falconer, they have enough leverage to stop us in our tracks. I know the men would be willing to fight with bare hands if we asked it of them, but I would sooner have them all live to fight strong another day when the odds might be more in our favor."

  A wave of half-hearted objections rippled through the crowd of men before they were hissed to silence.

  "The Lieutenant knows what is best," Rowntree said. "And I agree. We need to get the wounded men to safety first. And if Angus does his job properly, the corsairs will be kept busy putting out fires and running from explosions."

  “I'll do my job proper, ye young whip,” Angus scowled. “Ye just make prime certain ye get Archibald MacGregor off that Barbary sow. He is nay too fond o’ water; and with a torn leg he'll be apt to squeal like the clarty Glaswegian he is, so mind ye tap him good on the brainbox afore he kens what ye’re about.”

  “Noise will be our prime enemy,” Adrian agreed. “If this plan has any hope for success, it has to be executed in absolute silence. The slightest sound could cost a life,” He let the warning sink in for a moment then asked if there were any questions.

  “Any word on the captain, sar?” Angus wondered.

  “Captain Jennings is dead.”

  “And Lieutenant Falworth?” Rowntree asked.

  Ballantine turned without answering. “Angus—all we really need is one large hole below the waterline. She is so low now she will go down like a stone. Make sure you give yourself and your men ample time to get clear. You are a cantankerous old coot, but I have grown fond of having you at my back.”

  MacDonald beamed under the praise. “Ye can count on me, sar.”

  “Everyone not with Angus or Rowntree—" Ballantine direct his orders to the silent crew—“I want you off as quickly and as quietly as you can go. Hug the Eagle’s bow until you are into her shadow. There is a twenty-yard swim to the cover of the reeds, then a clear run into the bushes. Head for the rise at the west end of the cove and we will all rendezvous a mile down the coast. Do not stop for anything. Do not wait beyond noon tomorrow. My hope is the corsairs will not think it worth the time or energy to chase after us. When the Eagle burns, her fires will attract company from land and from sea—the latter especially—and I am counting on one of our own patrolling ships to show the most curiosity. That is it then, unless there are any questions? Angus, pick your men and distribute whatever weapons you have to them. Andrew?”

  “Ready, sir,” said the young sergeant. He had removed his boots and stripped down to his breeches, as had the eight burly men he had selected from the crush of willing volunteers. Each had a knife tucked in his waistband and an oddly shaped object clutched in his hands.

  “Angus’s idea,” Rowntree explained, seeing Adrian’s inquisitive look. “A stocking filled with nails and bolts and scraps of iron. We had to pull up some floor boards to fill them, but we have made four dozen of the spikey little bastards, and I for one would not want to be on the receiving end.”

  Adrian tested the weight of it and agreed.

  “Lieutenant!” An excited voice called from his watch by the gap in the planks. “Clouds, sir, a thick bank of ‘em comin’ in fast.”

  “This is it then,” Adrian said urgently. “We go now, while there is some chance of cover. Good luck, men.”

  “Luck, sirs,” the men replied but Adrian was already through the hull and shimmying down the cloth rope. When his group was in the water, Adrian gave a signal and one by one they filled their lungs, and their heads dipped below the surface. With the watery, moon-etched clouds as a guide, the ten men kicked off from the side of the Eagle and swam to the Falconer, all but one making the crossing without the need to surface. The single head that broke the surface did so quickly and with such a soft splop, the half-dozing sentry on the stern rail of the Falconer barely troubled himself to gaze over the side.

  Adrian cursed away the fatigue he felt in his arms and legs as the men huddled behind him at the base of the pirate frigate. One by one they swam for the anchor cable, climbing hand over hand to the row of deadeyes that jutted out from the side of the ship. They crab-walked sideways along the outer rail, careful to keep their heads low and their ears alert to any sound of movement on deck.

  The cloud bank drifted free of the moon and the ship was once again bathed in a ghostly soft glow. Adrian craned his neck above the rail to scan the length of the quarter-deck and ducked back down as he saw the heads and shoulders of two corsairs standing so close to the rail he could have reached out and touched them.

  He raised two fingers in a mute warning to Andrew Rowntree, who was crouched on the rails beside him. Andrew nodded and unfastened the spiked sap from his belt. On a count of three they vaulted simultaneously over onto the deck, Adrian’s knife slicing through the tissue and cartilage of one guard’s neck before the corsair was even aware of danger. Andrew brought the sap down hard and fast on the second man’s neck, tearing away both the startled cry and half the bloodied tissue of his throat in the process. The corsair was dead before he struck the planking, and Andrew stared first at the blood gushing over his feet, then at the nail-filled cosset.r />
  “Damn,” he muttered. “It really works.”

  “You had doubts?”

  Rowntree grinned. “Not for a minute.”

  Adrian bent over the body of the guard he had killed and searched him for weapons before dragging the corpse behind the huge anchor capstan. Andrew was directly behind him and they hastily covered the two bodies with a sheet of canvas. Adrian waved the other waiting men aboard and led them in a running crouch along the quarter-deck to the prisoner’s pen. Adrian stood watch at the same spot where Courtney Farrow had breached the barricade, while one after another, the men ducked between the crates.

  “Shall I check for more guards for’ard, sir?” Andrew whispered.

  Adrian shook his head. "Worry about the men first. I am going to close and tie off the hatches. It will not stop them for long if they really want to get out, but it might delay them. Get the men off, get yourself off, and get away from this cove before all hell breaks loose.”

  With the speed and silence of a panther, Adrian melted into the shadows and was gone before the sergeant could protest. The forward hatchway was open. It took less than ten seconds to close it and slide a bar through the rails of the coaming. When he had sealed off the other outer hatches, he took a moment to creep back to check on the progress of the men. Satisfied that between Rowntree and Matthew Rutger, all of the men would soon be ashore, he glanced over at the silent hulk of the Eagle.

  Chapter Twenty

  Miranda made her way quietly past the rows of sleeping corsairs. She had taken one of Garrett’s shirts to replace the torn blue silk frock and had any of the men happened to grumble awake, they would have been treated to the vision of a pair of long, bare legs gliding past their hammock. She did not care if they wakened, or if they saw her. She was furious, bristling with a rekindled loathing for all men, especially Garrett Shaw.