“I suppose I could have done worse,” Em remarked. “I could have ended up with Draper. He had his eye on me, luv. Still has.”
“We’ve been very lucky, Em.”
“Luck had very little to do with it,” she observed. “I can think of a number of places I’d rather be than on this ship.”
“You could be on The Crimson Hawk.”
“Don’t I know it, luv. Poor Nadine. She’s not going to last very long, I fear. None of them are. Thank God you were able to save Corrie.”
“It wasn’t easy,” I replied. “The first time I brought the subject up he flatly refused. He said he didn’t want a nigger underfoot. He said he had servants on the island.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him that Corrie was a wizard with needle and thread and that she could perform miracles with my hair. I told him that if I was going to be his mistress I wanted to look the best I could and Corrie could help. He still refused.”
“And?”
“I pouted. I was very cool, very remote. He finally relented. He told me to keep her out of his way and said the first time she got uppity he would get rid of her. Corrie’s terrified of him, of course. I’ve given her very careful instructions on how to conduct herself when he’s around.”
“Rotten bastard,” Em said.
“At least she’s safe, Em. Temporarily.”
“And that’s something,” she agreed. “We’re going to get out of this, luv. They’ve got pistols and knives and swords, but we’ve got our own weapons. Thank God we know how to use them.”
“It’s not easy, Em.”
“I know. Michael’s quite fond of me already, although he’d go to the stake before he’d admit it, but I keep reminding myself he’s a bloodthirsty pirate. I know he could turn on me at any minute.”
“I have the same feeling about Red Nick.”
“Is everything under control?” she asked.
“He’s quite satisfied. I intend to keep him that way.”
Nicholas Lyon came up on deck at that moment, looking unusually resplendent in glossy brown leather boots, brown satin breeches, and a gorgeous bronze satin frock coat trimmed with gold braid, cascades of gold lace at the wrists. He wore a dashing broad-brimmed hat of brown felt, bronze and white plumes sweeping down over one side. He spoke to Tremayne for a moment. Tremayne nodded and went below, and Lyon examined the cannons, giving terse instructions to those who were to man them, and then he joined Em and I on the poop deck.
“You both look quite elegant,” he remarked.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I see Tremayne found a gown for you,” he said, addressing Em. “We keep a supply on hand for just such occasions as these.”
“What kind of occasion would that be?” Em asked.
“We’re going to welcome compatriots of ours.”
“I didn’t know pirates had compatriots,” she retorted.
Red Nick gave her a cold, thoughtful look that would have sent shivers up the spine of a less courageous lass. Em faced him without fear, saucy and defiant, and after a moment a wry smile twisted on his lips.
“It seems Tremayne hasn’t performed his duties,” he observed.
“He’s performed ’em, all right. My backside’s black and blue. Want a peek, Captain?”
Red Nick ignored her. “When we spot the ship,” he said, “when they are close enough to see you, I want you both to wave. Where’s the little nigger? She might add a touch of authenticity.”
“She’s in her room,” I said. “I—I don’t want her up here.”
He elevated one slanted brow, his blue eyes hard as stone.
“She’d be terrified. She’d give the show away,” I added, thinking quickly.
“She might at that,” he agreed. “I suppose two lovely ladies, their courtiers and a dozen French soldiers will have to do.”
“Just what I’ve always wanted to be,” Em said, “bait.”
“I see I shall have to speak to Tremayne,” Lyon observed dryly.
Em started to make another saucy reply, but I gave her a warning look. She restrained herself, and Red Nick moved on to inspect twelve men who had just come from below, all twelve dressed in French naval uniforms. He gave them a careful scrutiny, ordering one to remove a gold hoop from his earlobe, ordering another to tie his hair back.
“I don’t think I’m going to like this,” Em remarked. “I might as well confess it, luv, I hate bloodshed. It makes me terribly edgy. I’ve a feeling we’re going to see a lot of it.”
“Do you think we could signal them somehow?”
“Warn them, you mean? Not a chance, luv.”
Em gave the black lace parasol an extra twirl. “Maybe they’ll win,” she said. “Maybe we’ll be rescued right away. That would be ripping. I’ve always had a weakness for Frenchmen.”
“Em, you must learn to curb your tongue with the captain. Tremayne might tolerate your sauce, he might even find it appealing, but Nicholas Lyon is—he has no sense of humor.”
“You’re telling me,” she replied. “I know I’m going to have to watch myself, luv, but sometimes I just don’t think. This tongue of mine has gotten me into so much trouble.”
“It’s gonna get you into a whole lot more,” Tremayne informed her.
Neither of us had heard him approach. He had changed into an outfit almost as resplendent as the captain’s, black boots, blue satin breeches, and a matching frock coat trimmed in silver. His wide black hat was adorned with long, sweeping black and white plumes.
“Don’t you look fancy,” Em said.
“The captain spoke to me just now, said you’d been lippy, said I was ta give you a good beatin’ when we get below. I mean to, too.”
“I can hardly wait, luv, You do it so well.”
He scowled, and Em sighed wearily and reached up to adjust the slant of his hat, setting it at a more rakish angle. When she was satisfied with the tilt, she patted his cheek and ran her thumb over his full lower lip.
“You actually look handsome in that getup,” she told him. “You keep wearin’ it, and I might even let you sleep with me.”
“I ain’t jestin’, Emmeline. You’re gonna get it.”
“So are you,” she promised.
Tremayne scowled again, obviously infatuated, a sullen bulldog bewitched in spite of himself by a playful kitten. He glared at her menacingly, hoping to intimidate her.
“He give you your instructions?” he growled.
“Yes, luv. We’re supposed to stand here and look lovely and smile and wave and lure the Frenchmen to their doom.”
“One false move,” he said, “just one, and you’ll feed the sharks. I mean it, Emmeline. This is serious business, and you’re part of it now.”
“Some girls have all the luck.”
“I’m gonna keep my eye on you,” he warned.
“Don’t worry, Handsome. We’ll play our roles to perfection.”
He stalked away, the long black and white plumes billowing. There was a loud cry from the pirate perched high up in the crow’s nest. Tremayne snatched a telescope from one of the men, put it to his eye and tensely studied the horizon. Far, far away, where the blue waters turned purple before merging with the pearl-gray sky, a tiny black speck was visible to the naked eye. Tremayne put the telescope down and began to bark orders in a gruff, excited voice.
The skull and crossbones was lowered, a large, vivid French flag raised to the top of the highest mast where it fluttered in glory. The crew scurried about making last-minute preparations, priming the cannons, piling balls in place, readying the long tapers for lighting, checking knives, pistols and cutlasses. The black speck on the horizon gradually took shape, a tiny toy boat now, bobbing on the water like a cork in the distance, growing larger as The Sea Lyon drew nearer, skimming lightly over the waves toward its victim.
“All right, men!” Tremayne shouted.
Grappling hooks and planks were brought out, placed within easy reach. The ropes dan
gling from the masts were checked. Those pirates not in French uniform crouched out of sight, four huddling around each cannon on the leeward side, the others hiding behind boxes and barrels and hatches. One uniformed man took over the wheel from Draper. Another manned the tiller. The other ten idled about the deck in strategic spots, highly visible. Tremayne and Red Nick joined us on the poop deck. The French vessel loomed larger now, and I could see the sailors moving about on deck, brawny lads in tight white breeches and blue and white striped jerseys. A man in a handsome uniform with shiny epaulettes was holding a telescope to his eye, observing us closely.
“Heavily armed,” Tremayne observed. “Heavily manned, too. Guess that’s to be expected, considerin’ what they’re carryin’.”
“I’d say they outnumber us two to one,” Red Nick replied.
“Ain’t no problem, Captain.”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
I tried to control the nervous tremors inside as I watched the French ship loom larger still. Red Nick looked at me with indifferent blue eyes.
“You don’t like this, do you?” he inquired.
“They—they’re all doomed,” I said.
“Quite so,” he agreed.
“They haven’t a chance.”
“Not a chance. Smile,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“Smile!” he ordered. “Wave!”
The breach between the two ships narrowed. The French vessel was large and solid, built to withstand just such an attack as the one Lyon planned. I could see the men on deck clearly now. They seemed terribly young, their faces bright and merry, and all of them were doomed. All of them were going to die, were going to be horribly butchered. I could feel myself trembling. The man with the telescope wore a suspicious expression. He gave an order and men raced to man the cannon, ready to fire if need be. I couldn’t stand it. I had to go below. I started to turn. Nicholas Lyon took hold of my wrist and gave it a twist that sent needles of pain all the way up to my shoulder.
“Smile,” he repeated.
I forced a smile on my lips. I raised my free hand and waved. Michael Tremayne was standing very close to Em, his arm behind her, a pistol jammed between her shoulder blades. Em’s eyes were damp, but she was smiling, too. The Sea Lyon sailed nearer its prey, the sails ballooning majestically in the wind, the French flag fluttering high overhead. The pirates in uniform began to shout and wave now, greeting their supposed compatriots with great zest. Nicholas Lyon released my wrist and removed his plumed hat and executed an elegant bow to the captain across the water.
“Bonjour!” he shouted.
The captain returned the greeting, still suspicious.
“We’re a passenger ship,” Red Nick called, in perfect French. “A storm blew us slightly off course three days ago. We’re relieved to see you. We’re short on water. Have you any spare barrels?”
“We can give you three or four,” the captain shouted.
“A million thanks!”
Suspicions gone now, the captain spoke to his men. They moved away from the cannons. Several of them began to smile and wave. The ships drew closer, moving slowly toward each other. Tremayne was grinning like a little boy who had just been given an armload of brightly wrapped presents. A grin played on Red Nick’s lips, too, but his blue eyes were lethal. He waited until the other ship was no more than fifty yards away, then raised his arm and lowered it in a sharp, abrupt signal. The cannons boomed. Em screamed. The Sea Lyon rocked so violently that I was almost thrown off my feet.
Four large, gaping holes appeared in the hull of the French vessel, and two of the masts came tumbling down like felled timber, the sails ripping, the masts crashing onto the deck, one of them landing on the captain, knocking him down and crushing him horribly. The pirates swarmed over the deck, yelling lustily, tossing the grappling hooks across the water, pulling the French ship alongside The Sea Lyon. Red Nick threw his hat aside, peeled off his bronze satin coat, and seized the cutlass Tremayne held ready. The two of them leaped eagerly into the fray as planks were placed across the railings of the two ships and the pirates raced across them, others scrambling up the rigging and grabbing hold of ropes to swing through the air and land on the other deck with barbaric cries.
The huge iron balls tearing into the hull and felling the masts had taken the French sailors by complete surprise, and the ship had pitched so violently that many of them had been thrown sprawling onto the deck, arms and legs akimbo. Red Nick and his men fell upon them with vicious energy, cutting and slashing and firing their pistols, yelling like demons from the depths of hell. It took the Frenchmen several moments to recover from the shock. During those brief moments, their ranks were depleted, the deck already running with bright red blood.
“Jesus!” Em cried. “Oh, sweet Jesus!”
Her green-brown eyes were filled with anger and horror, and with tears as well. She dropped her parasol and clung to me, and neither of us could look away. We were paralyzed, held captive by the multiple scenes of carnage taking place before our eyes, a noisy, swirling, constantly shifting kaleidoscope of bloodshed. I saw a blond French youth get to his feet and seize his pistol, saw Draper drive a sword through him before he could fire. The youth’s eyes grew wider and wider, his lips moving in a silent prayer as blood spurted and he sank to his knees.
Another sailor with wavy brown hair struggled furiously as two laughing pirates seized him and lifted him in the air and hurled him over the railing, his body falling to the waves below, followed by another, another, yet another. Directly across from where Em and I stood four French sailors were fighting with Draper and two other men, fighting with superhuman strength and determination as the three pirates closed in, cutlasses flashing. One of the sailors managed to fire his pistol, and the pirate beside Draper grabbed his stomach and crashed to the deck. Draper knocked the pistol out of the sailor’s hand and, too close to thrust with his blade, gave the lad a fierce shove that sent him crashing against the railing with such force that the wood splintered and he went spinning into the water. Draper and the remaining pirate cut down the other three sailors, heaved them overboard, and rushed to find more victims.
It was horrible, horrible, so horrible I could hardly believe it was happening. It was something out of hell, demons yelling, blood gushing, flames leaping as one of the sails caught fire, and I watched with stunned disbelief, my senses numb with shock. The burning mast and sail crackled, toppled, falling into the water, a sheet of flame covering everything like a vivid orange banner for a moment before disappearing into the waves. I desperately wanted to hide my eyes, to go below, to shut off the horror, but I was rooted to the spot, compelled to watch, seeing everything through a haze of disbelief. Em’s face was white. Her shoulders were trembling. I wrapped my arms around her, and she buried her head in my shoulder, sobbing quietly, the strong, courageous girl momentarily reduced to a frightened child.
Tremayne was having the time of his life, leaping around with great agility, wielding his knife with deadly precision, his sky-blue satin outfit splattered with blood. Somehow or other he had managed to keep his hat on, and the plumes waved wildly. He grabbed a sailor by the hair, yanked his head back, sliced his throat, and then shoved him aside to grab another man and drive his knife deep into the man’s chest. He was laughing, his dark eyes alight with boyish glee as he stabbed and slashed, enjoying the slaughter as another man might enjoy a rousing physical sport. Heaving yet another victim aside, he leaped nimbly over a fallen mast to grab another sailor from behind, shoving his knife into the sailor’s back and twisting it viciously, his lips spreading in a wide, delighted grin as the lad screamed in agony and shuddered and died.
Red Nick fought coolly, calmly, his face expressionless as he used his cutlass with dazzling skill. While most of his men jabbed and slashed and jumped about in a frenzy of bloodlust, Lyon fenced like an aristocrat, each thrust and parry sharp and clean, arm and cutlass moving as one in graceful, deadly swirls, the sleeves of his fine white
lawn shirt billowing, ruffles aflutter. Three sailors converged upon him, backing him against a wall, two of them slashing with swords as the other leveled his pistol, preparing to fire. Lyon moved with lightning speed, ducking, twirling, his free arm swinging out to loop around the throat of one of the men with swords. Holding the man in front of him in a deadly stranglehold, using him as a shield, he continued to thrust and parry, driving his blade through the heart of the man with the pistol, extracting it quickly, fencing coolly with the other sailor. He knocked the sword out of his hand and killed him neatly, and when he unwound his arm from his shield’s throat, the man fell limply to the deck, strangled to death.
The deck was littered with bodies now, blood flowing in bright scarlet ribbons. Only a few sailors remained. Half the pirates had gone below to seek out more victims. They didn’t intend to leave anyone alive. I watched as several pirates came merrily back up on deck, dragging along three unfortunate passengers, two older men in satin and lace and powdered wigs and a plump middle-aged woman in wine-colored velvet. The woman was struggling and shrieking. The two men were dazed. Laughing, yelling with savage glee, the pirates hauled the two men over to the railing and tossed them into the waves that, by now, were alive with sharks.
The woman broke free. She ran shrieking around the deck, stumbling over the bodies, waving her arms in the air. The pirates pursued her, delighted by the game, making no real effort to catch her at first. The woman fell down and spied a pistol and grabbed it and tried to fire, but they were upon her before she could pull the trigger. Taking hold of her by the wrists and ankles, they carried her over to the railing and swung her back and forth, swinging her over the railing, swinging her back, laughing, yelling, finally giving a final swing and releasing their holds. She went sailing through the air and disappeared into the water with a gigantic splash.
It was over. Everyone who had been on the ship was dead, and the ship itself was beginning to list dangerously. Pirates were coming up from below with chests and trunks, bringing them across the planks to deposit them on The Sea Lyon. Tremayne was wiping the blade of his knife and looking disappointed that there was no one else to kill. Red Nick was calmly issuing orders, his eyes as cold as blue ice, the heavy copper wave slanting damply across his brow.
Love Me, Marietta Page 19
