Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  He regards me, takes a pace or two one way, then the other. Then he turns to face me once more. “Miss Caxton, what is your father’s profession?”

  “My father? He is a parson.”

  He raises eyes to the ceiling. “It gets better. Miss Caxton, you are plainly unfit for the kind of company you will find aboard a ship, especially an… independent… vessel such as this. While I admire your spirit and your dedication, I'll not be responsible for turning you into the ship's whore.”

  Heat floods my face and I flare up. “And why should that happen? If I refuse…”

  But he cuts me short. “Madam!” He takes a long breath then, speaking slowly and precisely, says, “This ship has a complement of nearly two hundred men and many of them would be delighted to seek an alternative to the service of the ship’s boys…”

  He pauses, letting his meaning sink in. “How long precisely do you believe your refusal would protect you once the crew realised your true nature?” He arches brows. “I am returning you whence you came, madam. Once you are safely back in England, I know I need concern myself no longer with your welfare.”

  My anger bubbles, hot and corrosive, at the unfairness of all this, the sheer injustice. “My welfare? Where does my welfare come into this, sir? Let alone my wishes. If I return home, I will be forced into marriage with that… that slug, Mr Melville. I will not do it. I suppose I cannot prevent you from returning me to England. But be assured, sir, that you will not force me back into the tender care of my mother!”

  He falls very still, arching a brow at my outburst.

  Shame tugs at me…

  He is only doing what he believes is right…

  I moderate my tone to something more seemly. “Your pardon, sir. I know I should not speak so boldly, but if you are set on sending me away, then I shall at the least, have my say…”

  The captain’s expression is bland, but his attention is on me.

  “… Should you return me to my parents… I will not say my home… I shall simply depart again at the first opportunity and find some other way to make my way in the world. I do not want to spend my life as a bird in a cage, be that cage ever so gilded. And I will not do so.”

  He perches a hip on the table, faces me. “What do you want, Josephine?”

  Will he listen?

  Take me seriously?

  “I want something more than a life as… a domestic servant… an ornament… to a man I despise. I want to do things. To have experiences. I want to see the places in the world I have only read of in books…”

  Something like despair wells up inside me, threatening to overwhelm. My voice shudders. “Even that reading I had to do in secret. I was forced to conceal my books because they were deemed unsuitable. My only destiny was to be married off as broodmare to a loathsome lecher who happened to be in a position to perform favours for my father.”

  The captain stands, then paces, hands clasped behind his back, head down. “Tell me about this Mr Melville of yours.”

  The question unsettles me. I had not expected it. “Be assured, sir, he is not my Mr Melville. As to your question… He is fat. No, not exactly fat. More, perhaps… blubbery. Like a seal, except that seals are… appealing...” The captain snorts a laugh with no humour in it. “… And always, he is licking his lips. Always they are wet. When he touches me or tries to, my stomach rebels.”

  Captain Broughton comes to a halt, leans back against the wall, arms folded. “And why exactly were your parents so set on your marriage to this Adonis? You say he was able to perform some favour for your father?”

  “In truth, it is my mother who desires it. My father pays me little attention. In his world, members of the female sex are mere… embellishments… around the house. Like a better class of candlestick or timepiece. But my mother wishes for the marriage because of Mr Melville’s family. The connections. His father is the Bishop of Elswick...”

  The captain’s face is softening. He Aahhs… Understanding dawns there.

  “… All my mother cares about is my father’s advancement. She is using me as sale goods.” The fire flares in me once more. “If I am to be sale goods, I shall make my own bargain.”

  “Will you now?” The captain’s mouth twitches and there is something in his eyes…

  What?

  Admiration?

  Dare I speak?

  “Captain, until I left my home, I had no comparison to make. I only knew that I cannot bear the man they affianced me to. But then… I met you and I learned how a man should really be.”

  For long seconds he is silent. When he does speak, it is quietly. “Josephine, are you in love with me?”

  Oh… God…

  My chest is tight. I nod. “I think… perhaps… I am.”

  He heaves in air, then lets it out again. “I am honoured that you should feel so…” He moves close, tilts up my chin with a finger. “But you should realise that I am not perhaps the man you believe me to be. I am not the gentle lover who would treasure you and treat you like some precious jewel.”

  He pauses, seeming uncertain for a moment, then, “Are you aware that I was once affianced myself?”

  “Yes… I… someone told me, yes. That she left you.”

  Why would any woman leave such a man?

  He continues, “Yes, she left me. However… hurtful as my betrothed’s actions were, in fact, for her, I believe she made the correct decision when she abandoned me.”

  I shift from one foot to the other. “Captain, I am unsure what you mean. I have seen your actions. I have heard what the men say of you. I believe you to be a good and honourable man.”

  “Ah, but Josephine...” He moves yet closer, his breath washing over my face. “You have not seen the man I am in the privacy of the bedchamber.”

  I flush hot. “Captain?”

  “Do want to learn the man I am? Truly?”

  I whisper, “Yes.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs, and he nods slowly.

  Then, pressing at his temples, he closes his eyes. “Miss Caxton. Leave me. Go about your duties in the normal way. Say nothing to anyone of this. To the crew, you remain Samuel Parsons. I need to think on this matter.”

  Chapter 8

  Pirate

  Two days go by and my captain says nothing more to me of the matter, behaving as though our peculiar discussion had never taken place. I have little difficulty maintaining my front to the crew. There are always decks to be scrubbed.

  From high in the rigging, a cry. “Sail!”

  Mr Bridges flashes an eye upwards then follows the pointing arm out over the sea. “Go fetch the captain, lad.”

  “Sir.” I dash down to the captain’s cabin, tap on the door.

  “Come in.” He looks wary as I enter. “Mr Parsons?”

  “Begging your pardon, captain, but a ship has been sighted.”

  He snaps fingers towards his tailcoat, and in silence I offer it up, sliding it up his shoulders. As he marches out, I accompany him.

  I may not have another opportunity…

  As we walk, he is silent, refusing to catch my eye.

  He’s sending me away…

  On deck, he extends a glass, staring out until after a long moment, he snaps the glass closed. “It’s the Iron Hand. And they are trying to run.”

  He calls upwards into the rigging. “Can you see more than the one, Mr Foster? Is the Black Falcon with them?”

  The shout comes back down. “No, sir. Just the single ship.”

  He punches a fist into his cupped hand. “And the Albatross has the gage. We have them!”

  Forgetting my reticence, “We have them, captain? But they’re running away from us.”

  He flashes me a smile. “You will learn, Mr Parsons, when you are aboard a ship, there is no such thing as a hasty retreat. It may take some little while to catch them, but we are faster than they are. We have more sail and less weight. They cannot outrun us. And if they do not surrender, by the time we have bombarded them with cannon-fi
re, they will be hard-pressed to resist effectively as we board. And once we’ve done and taken what we came for, we will be able to send that ship to the bottom of the sea.”

  The sails grow larger as we narrow the distance to our quarry. All around me, men stand armed and ready, eager for the fight.

  The ship we are pursuing is huge. As we draw ever closer, I begin to understand how much so. “It’s so much larger than we are.”

  The captain is unperturbed. “So it is, Mr Parsons, but we have the weather gage.”

  “Sir? I don’t understand.”

  “We are upwind of them. We can turn and manoeuvre at will. The Iron Hand, on the other hand, to attack, must turn back into the wind. Her guns would have to be elevated while ours are on the level. In any event, she does not have the space for such a move.”

  I shake my head, trying to make sense of this explanation. He extends a long finger towards our target. “Watch, Mr Parsons, and learn.”

  We draw ever closer to the Iron Hand. By now, we would be within range of their cannon, but approaching from their stern, as I now begin to comprehend, they cannot bring their guns to bear.

  Closer we come and closer. As I feel that we must surely crash into the enemy ship, we veer to one side, swinging until we are broadside on to them. And now, our cannon have them in their sights.

  With a rumble and a crash, Albatross shudders as the first of our guns fire. The balls arc through the air, so graceful for such a deadly weapon, then smash into the hull of the Iron Hand. Even from here, I see the timbers, thick oak, shattering like eggshells.

  And still, we are to their stern. They cannot return fire, not effectively. Their guns blaze but without the angle necessary, their shots splash harmlessly into the sea.

  Our cannons fire once more; this time with balls of iron linked by chain, targeting the Iron Hand’s main mast. The shot shrieks as it crosses the short distance between the two vessels, strikes… and for a moment, all seems to fall still…

  The men around me pause their shouting, arms dropping to their sides as they watch… and wait…

  The world stirs again, but its motion is somehow slowed, as though men and ships and canon were moving through honey or syrup.

  With the crack and scream of splintering timbers, the mast topples and, seeming almost lethargic as it does so, it falls. Collapsing into the sea, the sails flap uselessly in the water and the mast, still attached by ropes and rigging to the ship, drags at the vessel as it tries to sink beneath the waves.

  Our enemy is crippled.

  More men are spilling up from our lower decks, armed with swords and pistols, hooks and grappling irons.

  Will he let me fight?

  No…

  I look to my captain, but his attention is elsewhere as he shouts orders. Forgotten, I make my way down to where the quartermaster is issuing weapons to all hands.

  No… not all hands…

  As he sets eyes on me, the quartermaster hovers. “Don’t you think you’re a bit young for this, Sam? No-one’s going to think worse of you for staying out of the trouble.”

  “But I want to help, sir. I want to fight.” He havers, uncertainty in his eyes. “Please let me. Everyone else is, even the older cabin boys. Please, sir.”

  He sucks at his teeth. “No. Sorry, lad. I know it’s hard, but that’s the captain’s orders. The youngest of the boys are to be kept out of the trouble.”

  Then he turns, a hand raised, a finger pointed. “Hey, you! Wait until it’s issued t’yer...”

  His back is turned. Only for a moment, but I seize my chance, snatch up a sword and dash out.

  On the upper deck; shouts and screams; the crack of pistol fire and the clang of metal. We are alongside the Iron Hand. Crewmen are swinging grappling irons in short circuits over their heads and then outward to snatch at the side of the enemy ship. The steel teeth biting in, slowly but inexorably it is hauled closer.

  The moment it is within range, men are leaping from the Albatross, swords in hands, screaming defiance at the waiting enemy.

  At the far end of the ship, my captain is there, shouting orders and himself leaping from the deck of one ship to the other. I run, following him.

  Then… I jump too.

  I land on the deck of the Iron Hand rocking on the balls of my feet, to find myself engulfed by violent, seething chaos. Smoke burns at my face. The tang of black powder stings in my nostrils.

  As I swipe tears from my fume-scorched eyes, one of the Hand’s crew bears down on me, his sword raised, then shrieks as a ball hits him in the shoulder before falling at my feet.

  The sword is much heavier than I expected, weighing down my hand…

  I don’t know what to do…

  … but then another man comes screaming at me, slashing with his blade, and I swing the sword, parrying him more by luck than skill. But he thrusts again, forcing me back against the rails.

  As I think my end has come, his eyes suddenly fling wide. Blood trickles from his mouth and he gapes down to where Mr Bridges’ sword protrudes from his chest.

  The first mate stands behind the fallen man, stabbing a finger to me then back to our own ship. “Back to the Albatross for you, Mr Parsons. Right now. You don’t belong here.”

  He’s right…

  My mouth dry, my body shaking, I twist around to return to the safety of my own vessel, and I see him…

  My captain… Fighting like a demon, he makes his way through the press of men. Dodging some, engaging with others, steadily he advances, his head swinging all the while, eyes darting here and there, looking for something…

  Or someone…

  The enemy captain?

  Hadsall?

  I was instructed to return to the Albatross. I intended to do so, to obey. But now I am close by my captain and I want to be by his side. I don’t mean to be, but I am drawn to him.

  His dark hair is tied back by a leather thong, his shirt streaked with black powder, stained with sweat. Gripping his sword, he battles his way through the enemy crew, making the blade dance a bloody jig, one after another falling to his cut and thrust.

  From behind him comes the attacker; a great brute of a man, a giant. Wielding a three-foot cutlass, blade raised, he advances on his target. And my captain…

  My love…

  … has not seen him…

  I scream out. “Captain!”

  He turns, but the sword is already descending, and I hurl myself, my own puny blade outstretched, at the grinning attacker. The cutlass crashes into my sword just below the hilt and I scream with the impact as pain knifes through my wrist and up into my shoulder.

  The sword clatters down from my numb fingers, but I have done enough. The fatal blow was blocked and my captain, murder in his eyes, faces his attacker.

  They circle each other, blades held loosely but at the ready. The giant charges forward, his sword extended, but my captain dodges, ducking to one side, parrying the thrust with the sliding screech of steel on steel; then twisting, he thrusts, stabbing out.

  But this time, the giant blocks the blow, then stabs to the right and up, slicing through linen, and blood blooms over the already soiled shirt.

  My captain swings his sword down to the left, and as the giant sidesteps, back again. The blade slices at the back of his knees and he falls, screaming and cursing.

  The captain’s blade pricks at his throat. “Yield.”

  The giant tries to jerk upright then, his face twisting, lies back, nodding.

  “Mr Parsons, take his sword if you please.”

  But as I stoop to take the weapon, the giant snarls, slashing upwards at me… then gasps, his throat gaping open as my captain’s sword drips blood. Shaking uncontrollably, I watch as the giant gurgles his life away.

  Around us, the battle is reduced to isolated scuffles. Our enemies are surrendering, tossing their weapons aside, submitting to capture.

  The captain wipes his blade clean on the giant’s shirt.

  “Is that him, sir?
Your enemy, Hadsall?”

  He flashes me a black look, and all unmeaning, I step back. “No, damn it. That's not him.” His voice is savage. “The bastard's not on board. He must be on the Black Falcon.”

  He glares at me. “You, back to the Albatross. Right now.” His eyes drop to my wrist, cradled in one hand. His voice softens. “And go see the surgeon.”

  Gulping, I turn to leave, but he reaches, clasping my shoulder. “Mr Parsons, thank you.”

  The cockpit is heaving with men, some with minor injuries such as my own; others more severely wounded and needing immediate attention.

  I wait my turn, far behind other men hurt so much more seriously than myself. Cradling my swollen wrist, I watch as the surgeon prepares to remove a ball of shot from a man’s arm. The man, sallow and sweating, opens his mouth as the surgeon’s mate offers him a wad of leather to bite on.

  A movement next to me; the captain, seating himself beside me on the bench, his shirt soaked in blood. He too watches the surgeon and his patient for a moment, then, “So, Mr Parsons…” His face is bland, but his eyes pierce me. “… How is your taste for adventure now? Do you still feel you belong here?”

  The surgeon’s knife bites in and I flinch as the man screams through his leather gag. Men hold him steady at both shoulders as the surgeon probes into the wound with forceps. Blood drips, soaking into the sand.

  Do I really belong here?

  After seconds which, to the wounded man, surely feel like hours, the surgeon mutters, “Got it!” and he eases out the forceps, brandishing the lead ball gripped in their jaws. With a clink, he drops it into a dish beside him. “That should see you right, Mr Ridley. McKenzie here will dress your wound now while I go look to our captain.”

  My breath shudders. “Have we lost many men, sir?”

  “No.” He lets out air. “In fact, although this may look alarming to you, we have had only one fatality.”

  “And we took the Iron Hand?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s taking on water fast. It will be no more than two hours before she sinks.”