The Winds of Fate

by Michel, Elizabeth

  “I’ll kill every Irish−pocked whoreson of you!” Le Trompeur swiped at a crimson line of blood that flowed down his face. He kicked a chair at the crowd to cease their guffaws.

  Le Trompeur reacted more rashly. Was he afraid to suffer disgrace in the eyes of his followers? Had he underestimated Devon’s skill despite the fact he was wounded? Attempting to wear down Devon’s close guard, he attacked wildly.

  Every time that gleaming sword struck against Devon’s steel, her breath stopped. Devon had fought and bested Le Trompeur aboard the Mer Un Serpent. But this night, a change in Devon’s countenance showed his intent−a fight to the death. His green eyes sizzled with cold fire. A savage smile split his tawny face.

  Devon’s speed tired Le Trompeur. Sweat mingled with blood ran down the Frenchman’s grey face. He breathed hard. The gloating grin faded from his scarred face. Devon advanced, his glittering point everywhere dazzled his antagonist. Two, four, six, points. Le Trompeur defended one and the same time, circling his blade to cover himself. Devon’s sword flashed and pressed Le Trompeur back, again and again.

  Le Trompeur’s eyes bulged. His arrogance, no doubt bred on past victories, crushed the assumption of his superiority. He fell back, tripped and crashed to the floor. Devon leaped back and smiled.

  “Stand your ground, you mangy dog. In the hereafter you’ll think twice about taking the wife of the Black Devil! Name of God, do you call yourself a swordsman? Stand, you cur, and fight.”

  The French pirate bounded forward like a lion. Devon sidestepped to avoid his charge. The Frenchman spun around, thrust and from his disengage, Devon riposted.

  The success of his recovery bolstered confidence in Le Trompeur. He slashed at Devon. Devon parried, inviting a riposte.

  “Don’t be rash. Where do you intend to go?” Devon bluffed. “Observe how you and your French masters are trapped. The Royal Navy and the rest of my fleet hold the mouth of the harbor. You have no other option but to surrender.”

  “I know nothing of the Royal Navy. You lie.”

  “You think I know nothing of the war between France and England? I have the eyes and ears of the Caribbean!”

  Cannons boomed, bombarding the town. Pirates screamed. The town lay sieged.

  “You fool. You brought the whole Royal Navy down on us by taking his wife,” said the French Admiral. “Le Trompeur, you will hang if we survive this night. Men, go to the harbor, board your ships, defend your positions.” Pirates and French naval men fled over tables and chairs. Le Trompeur, the first to fly out the window.

  Breathing heavily, Devon placed his hand over his injured shoulder. He sank to his knees.

  A cannon ball hit the front of the building. French buccaneers lay dead in the aftermath. Concrete and dust fell in a pall. Devon mopped the sweat that beaded his forehead and blinded his eyes.

  Claire ran to him. She trembled. Daubs of blood blanketed her like driblets of red paint.

  “Oh Devon. How badly are you hurt? We must get you out of here.” Claire blinked when an English officer with members of Devon’s crew climbed through the rubble.

  “Help me,” she commanded.

  “I’ll live,” Devon managed. “Good to see you, Admiral Norreys. That Rock of Gibraltar, Bloodsmythe has done his job in capturing the outer defenses.”

  “That was the best swordplay I’ve ever witnessed,” said the English officer. “Let’s make haste while your man occupies these French frogs.” Devon’s men lifted him. He gritted his teeth, the searing pain shot through his shoulder. Claire bit her lip.

  In the streets of St. Martine, a cacophony of screams and blasts rent the night. Through a warren of back alleyways they made their way to moored boats. They lifted Devon into her arms. “Oh my darling, let me look,” Claire whispered, tears in her eyes. Blood oozed through his fingers clapped to his wound. She pulled his fingers aside. Le Trompeur’s sword had done its evil. A hole straight through his shoulder welled with blood. Claire tore her skirts and made a bandage.

  The French rallied to their ships and found their quarry. Cannons from the ships burst with fire. Balls hailed around them. The water heaved from a well-aimed ball, barely missing and pithing their vessel into the air. Ames and Young Johnnie grinned like gargoyles drawing lustily on their oars. Claire bit her lip. She held Devon next to her body to warm him. The reassuring beat of his heart thrummed against her palm.

  They repaired to the deck of the Sea Scorpion. “The French are releasing their warships,” warned the English Admiral.

  “Run up the royal colors.” Devon shouted and with his good arm used his scope to ascertain the damage done to the French Navy. Claire stood beside him. Clouds of smoke and darkness impaired her view. With the first few streaks of dawn, she strained through the haze.

  “Bloodsmythe has done a fine job leveling the town and two of the five ships,” Devon assessed their condition. “But we’ve three warships, fully masted and coming down fast.”

  “Dooley,” Devon yelled over to the Golden Gull. “Hold that old sea bitch steady then ram her into her broadsides. Keep your head about and remember to keep the cannons blazing, set her afire then jump.”

  “Aye Captain. We’re ready and waitin’”

  The first ship approached and Dooley, a true man of the sea let loose the Golden Gull. From her sides, cannons blasted at the French Man-O’-War. Claire counted the seconds. The French ship returned a full blast of her guns onto the helpless merchantman. Billowing clouds of smoke to larboard blotted out everything. Claire choked. The caustic odor caught in her throat set her to gasping and coughing. Devon’s men toppled to the decks of the Golden Gull but held firm the full sails. Claire saw Dooley pitch a torch. Suddenly the whole Golden Gull blazed with fire, fast proceeding on its course to the heart of the French ship. Devon’s men dove overboard.

  The corpulent French Admiral stood arrogantly on his foredeck. His outrage transformed to shock. He had miscalculated his enemy. His jaw worked up and down with his impending doom. The shattering and explosion of the Golden Gull into the French warship rocked the waters. Men on the Sea Scorpion cheered with the direct hit.

  “Fetch Dooley and his men from the sea. Don’t get overconfident boys,” shouted Devon. “We’ve two more ships that plague us.” He turned to the two gentlemen next to Claire.

  “Lord Sunderland, Admiral Norreys,” Devon addressed them. “I had hoped Wolf would have returned with the Royal Navy.”

  Claire stood shocked. Lord Sunderland was a peer of the realm, a very important peer. Had Devon kidnapped an English Lord and an English Admiral? She didn't even want to contemplate it, yet they seemed on familiar terms. But how? Numerous English sailors worked side by side with her husband's crew. The abduction would not matter. The odds of surviving the menacing French Man-O'-War were nil.

  Devon stopped beside her and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Don’t fear, my love.”

  “I’m not afraid. But I worry of your injury.”

  He kissed her forehead again before leaving her and shouting to his men. “Make all sail! Dress her in every rag she’ll carry. Top-men aloft. Man the tops’l sheets and halyards. Lay out. Loose. Let fall. Sheet home.” Devon ordered the Sea Scorpion to full sail.

  Lord Sunderland said to Devon, “Whatever results of this day, I am proud to be a part of it.” He turned to Claire and bowed to her. “It is a pleasure, Madame Blackmon to meet you, despite our circumstances.”

  No time existed for them to get under way. The French ships breathed hot on their necks.

  Suddenly the French ship quaked and pitched to a halt, throwing her crew to the deck. Devon grabbed the glass from Ames. “Look there, Lord Sunderland. That cursed storm narrowed the passage. It heaved up sandbars, running them aground on shoals. Our quarry delivered to us by nature. We will oblige them. Young Johnnie, let loose your cannons!”

  The deck beneath Claire’s feet thundered with the roar of the Sea Scorpion’s cannons. Claire shivered. A breeze swept clear the smoke,
revealing the burning rubbish heap of the defeated French ship, its lily standard shredded and trailing from its broken mast.

  The English Admiral emitted a dry smile “This night’s work beats anything I’ve ever witnessed.”

  “It’s not over yet,” said Devon.

  Claire followed to where her husband had his eyes trained. Her breath caught in her throat. The Mer Un Serpent emerged from the smoke and gloom, equaling the massive French warship, and with Le Trompeur to guide her, was a heavy match for the Sea Scorpion.

  “Bear to port. Pull out, but tender the reefs,” Devon ordered. “I predict she’ll not make the same mistake. We’ll lure her out to sea. Now Admiral, you’ll be able to sit on King William’s lap and recite this battle.”

  “But you’re going up against a forty-six gun ship.”

  “A moot point, Admiral Norreys. When up against overwhelming odds, use your strength’s to exploit your enemy’s weakness.” Devon chuckled, and Claire smiled at those familiar words. “The Sea Scorpion is fast and sleek. Much as I would enjoy further debate on the matter, time passes and I must take my leave.” Danger proved a heady wine for her husband as he moved about his ship with steeled confidence.

  With incredible speed, the sails fluttered from the yards. When the sails were hoisted and trimmed, the Sea Scorpion trembled with eagerness. The Mer Un Serpent chased in their wake. Far out to sea, beyond the hazard of shoals and reefs, Devon ordered his men to rein in and slow their progress for Le Trompeur to catch up.

  “The Mer Un Serpent lists to port. Her belly full of barnacles makes her slow and wallowing,” and without waiting for Norrey’s approving grunt, he shouted an order. “Helm, hard to starboard!”

  His voice rang with authority and purpose as he juggled the demands of bringing a huge ship about. Everything depended on Devon’s timing. Admiral Norreys stared off to port where the Mer Un Serpent altered course to bear aslant their bow. Like a bristling row of teeth, Claire eyed the cannon muzzles thrust through its open ports ready to fire upon them.

  She swayed against the bulkhead and held her breath. Le Trompeur shrieked to fire. The blast rocked the Sea Scorpion. Claire fell to the deck. A pirate ran past, wild-eyed with fear and excitement, his hair plastered wet to his head. Her pulse roared in her ears. Visions of the Sea Scorpion sinking swam before her eyes.

  Lord Sunderland pulled her to her feet. “Do not fear, Madam. Your husband knows what he is about.”

  Their starboard side came up. The Mer Un Serpent leaned larboard, so heavy with barnacles her portholes were covered. Claire could count the hairs on the French pirates’ chins they were so close. Le Trompeur’s soaring exultation vanished, the look on his face almost comical as he realized his mistake.

  “Fire!” commanded Devon. Cannons pounded. A volcano of fire and metal burst upon the Mer Un Serpent. Le Trompeur’s command to fire lost on his cruel lips. The French buccaneers mowed down. Fractured masts and rigging fell. Devon ordered his cannons again. Swept by the murderous scythe of a broadside, the mortally impaired Mer Un Serpent drifted.

  A shout from the crow’s nest drew Claire’s attention to the east. With studding sails set and royals full, the majesty of England’s sea power broached the horizon alongside Wolf. The men cheered. An answering volley from Admiral Norrey’s lead ship blasted the remainder of Le Trompeur’s ship. It exploded. Claire watched the fiery remains settle into the sea.

  Admiral Norreys proved he had a sense of humor. “At least we got in on part of this adventure.”

  “It’s about time,” laughed Devon. “Bring her up to the wind. Heave too,” he ordered and with his good arm, pulled Claire to his side. She beamed up at him. His men cheered.

  The uproar of relieved laughter and shouts filled the ship until it fair danced upon the sea. Backs were pounded, hands clasped between pirates and English naval men alike.

  Devon grinned. “Tell me true, Admiral Norreys−what do you think of this day’s work?”

  The English admiral chuckled. “When a man fails, it is considered folly, but it is genius if he succeeds.”

  Claire insisted Devon recline on a caned day bed set up on the foredeck with a sail canopy to shade him from the dazzling sun. Since he refused to rest in his cabin, they compromised on this arrangement. She stood next to him with Admiral Norreys and Lord Sunderland in attendance. Jovial congratulations and overall good cheer continued while waiting for Wolf and officers from the Royal Navy to board the Sea Scorpion. She bit a grin at her indomitable husband, chafing from his confinement. Devon rose again to bark an order to Ames. Claire placed her hand upon his good shoulder with a well-meaning look that broached no argument.

  Devon lay back down, and sighed irritably. “Madam, I am a doctor and own prescription to what I can do and not do.”

  “You’re a stubborn man who does not heed his own advice when necessary, so I have to take matters in my own hands.”

  “Faith, you’re bossy lass.”

  “Dooley’s doing a fine job with ship repairs. Bloodsmythe is rowing from shore with the men from the fort. Let Ames direct the rest of your crew. He is fully capable.”

  “He frets about seeing Lily again. It’s a wonder the Sea Scorpion is a float,” Devon huffed.

  Lord Sutherland chuckled. “It’s hard to keep a good man down.”

  “Look what fishes we caught in our nets,” said Bloodsmythe, pushing two wet men forward.

  “Sir Jarvis. Sir Teakle,” Claire seethed.

  Jarvis’s initial fear of being in the hands of pirates recoiled in confidence when he recognized Lord Sunderland and Admiral Norreys. “Arrest this pirate rabble and their leader,” Jarvis glared at Devon. He dared to move where the Black Devil reclined. Grabbing a whip he raised it and bent to strike him. “You’ll be hung for your crimes against the King. I’ll begin with the first strokes of justice.”

  Claire grabbed the whip from her uncle. He shrieked as the wicked strands of the cat cut into his neck and face. In shocked surprise, he stared into her enraged face. Claire raised her arm again, and snarled, holding her ground. “Do not ever touch what is mine.”

  Devon stood, his sword ready. Admiral Norreys stepped in front of him. “Let Lord Sunderland take care of this.”

  Lord Sunderland’s height and posture dominated Sir Jarvis. “The man you dare to disparage, the Black Devil performed with heroism today. As the Governor-General of the West Indies, I assure you his brave deeds will reach His Majesty’s ears. I am quite confident he will be knighted for his courageous performance.”

  Jarvis’s mouth opened and closed like a sea-bass on dry dock. “You can’t possibly mean that this pirate scum will be rewarded!”

  “Sir Jarvis, you will be sent back to England for treasonous crimes against King and country, kidnapping of a loyal subject of the realm, and collusion with the enemy in time of war. Add to that, the murder charges of your own brother and his wife.”

  Jarvis looked wildly about. “You believe the words of this pirate?”

  “I believe that justice will be meted out by the Crown for your abominations. Hanging will be your condemnation,” the English Lord intoned.

  Devon angled his head toward his men with the clear meaning, “Take him below.”

  “I should have hung you when you were in my power,” Jarvis spat as they dragged him away.

  Sir Teakle colored as the pirates chained him, his fate sealed with Jarvis. “I had nothing to do with it.” His entreaties fell on deaf ears.

  Lord Sunderland and Admiral Norreys left Claire and Devon alone. She held her husband’s head in her lap and smoothed an errant hair from his forehead.

  “Long ago in a gaol,” he began. “A beautiful woman entered my cell and gave a vow. Instead I vowed my vengeance on her person, blaming her for all my misfortunes. I’ve learned revenge isn’t the sword you carry but the love in your heart. Can you forgive me Claire?”

  “Oh Devon. You don’t ever have to ask for my forgiveness. I love you. I’ve always loved y
ou. I was just too foolish to realize it until it was almost too late. Can you forgive me?”

  “Yes,” he smiled shamelessly up at her. “On one condition.”

  Claire quirked her head to the side, as if considering. “Does that condition include a dozen children?”

  “That, I accept with pleasure, Madam Blackmon. And when can we begin that happy event?”

  Claire’s eyes twinkled mistily down on him. “Shall we repair to your cabin?”

  “Is that a promise?” he teased.

  From above, Abu Ajir cawed his approval and they both laughed.

  Devon’s eyes were soft with love as she cupped his handsome face in her hands.

  “A promise.”

  Born and raised in Western New York, award winning author Elizabeth St. Michel cultivated her love of books during long winters and wonderful summers of her childhood, making the region’s deep blue lakes and towering mountain ranges her playground. Blessed with a vivid imagination as a child, she constantly spun stories for her young friends, who listened, spellbound, for hours, earning her the title of “storyteller”. From the fleeting glimpse of childhood came adulthood with a variety of careers. The business world dawned, and then marriage and motherhood, all building blocks for a storyteller to emerge as a novelist.

  For her…well, it was coming home.

  Dear Readers,

  It has given me particular pleasure to write The Winds of Fate for you. There is no greater compliment to me as an author than for my readers to become so involved with the characters that you want me to write more. That said, I’m happily immersed in a series, introducing the powerful Duke of Rutland, a widower and his four strong-willed offspring. The Duke has formidable enemies determined to destroy his family...