“And say what exactly? My apologies, Miss McCoy, for pillaging your virtue?”
“Stubborn arse.”
“Mind yourself, V.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Bloody hell, won’t the throbbing ever cease? “For the love of Davy Jones, where’s my tea?”
Drake looked around for Henri who had awkwardly pretended to give them a private moment. Henri frowned, looking to them both, trying to figure out the details of Drake’s slanderous remark.
“My tea! Now, you ole scab!”
Henri huffed his displeasure with Drake, tugged on his bright green vest and left to fetch Drake his remedy. Valeryn shook his head and he too walked away. Drake really shouldn’t be snappish. ’Twas his own fault he waded in this misery.
The Rissa sailed closer than a cannon shot of the grounded vessel. Drake sipped on his tea. Guzzling it down hardly countered the hairy effects of too much drinking. He must take it slow and let it soothe him back to functional. And that gave him time to carefully observe the hapless ship’s deck. An unsettling feeling crept up on him. No one could be seen. That was highly unusual.
Valeryn edged next to him and leaned his elbows on the rail. “What do you make of it?” he asked.
Drake scratched at his chin. “The rigging is intact. There is no sign of unloading. But I do see something that indicates we should be cautious.”
He handed Valeryn the spyglass.
“Look at the quarterdeck, next to the mizzen mast. Do you see that?”
“Blood.”
“Aye. Could be an injury.”
“Or a mutiny,” Valeryn added.
“Precisely. Arm the men. You take half the lads on board the ship and inventory it. Anything of value, ferry it to the Rissa. Be sure to get the ship’s log. I’ll take the rest of the lads. If the crew went ashore, I intend to find out why.”
“Right.”
Valeryn barked off orders. The ammunition box was brought up and set in the middle of the deck. One by one, the men collected a rifle. Longboats swung out over the Rissa’s sides and the men, restless for adventure, loaded inside.
Drake finished off his tea and set the mug on the railing. He felt better, he had to, and he looked forward to the rummage ahead. Henri handed him his brace and cutlass. He nodded his thanks to the squab.
“The lass refused to come outta her cabin. Said she’d wait till you were gone.”
“I expected as much,” Drake said. He shrugged into his brace and tied on his sword. “Still, you and Willie keep watch over her. You know how damned unpredictable women can be.”
“’Bout as unpredictable as fool-headed capt’ns.”
Drake chose to ignore him. He’d been doing that a lot lately, ignoring people. He loaded into the boat and nodded to Sam to lower them down into the water. They were almost to shore when Valeryn’s longboat hit the water, making their way to the leaning craft. From Drake’s vantage point as they passed by, the damage to the vessel was minimal, which made the mystery surrounding her all the more curious. Carrying out an anchor and pulling her off the shallows might be all it necessitated to set her afloat again. ’Twasn’t his concern to repair her. Leave that for the Bahamian conches to do the tedious labor.
The waves rolled Drake’s boat into the white sands of the beach. Sandpipers scuttered with their tiny legs down the wet shore away from the men jumping into the surf. A white heron took flight, soaring to the copse of trees at the beach’s edge. No sooner had it landed on a bare limb than the bird flew off. Drake eyed the copious tree line. A foreboding silently called out to him.
“Capt’n. Take a look at t’is.”
Drake waded out of the water to where Sam gestured to the ground beside the jolly boats. Blood soaked through the sand, staining it an ugly shade of red. Inside the boat, smatterings of blood coated the bench and walls. Footprints and grooves, as if someone was dragged away, led to the woodsy jungle.
“T’e blood’s fresh,” Sam said.
“So it is,” Drake agreed. “Handle your piece, boys. There’s trouble about.”
Drake led his party into the thicket where the tracks had ended at the forest’s edge. A beaded rosary lay in the brushy sea grass growing in the sand drifts. Blood smeared across the wooden cross. He stepped over it, but Sam plucked it up. Drake glanced over his shoulder to the ships anchored offshore. Valeryn had reached the stranded boat. Beyond him, a visitor had sailed into view. Probably a damned conch looking to salvage the wreck.
The air cooled under the canopy the deeper into the interior they lurked. Dark green foliage swayed in the breezes that found their way through the thicket. Earthy odors rivaled the briny scents from the nearby beach.
What had Drake on alert were the sounds of the jungle. Or, rather, the lack of them. Birds didn’t sing, insects didn’t chirp. The forest was devoid of any noise. Something was not right, to be sure. If there were men here, they’d be heard. Drake halted, straining to listen to the hush. His men, too, stopped, scanning the woods knotted in thick, leafy vines.
A drip landed on Drake’s cheek. He dabbed at the wetness. Red. Blood.
One of the lads cursed.
Another made the sign of the cross. “Holy Mother of God.”
“Capt’n.” Sam lifted his eyes.
High above in the tree tops, ten or so men hung from the branches by their ankles. Large wounds gaped from their chests. Some had their throats slit. A ghastly sight. Eyes wide, mouths slackened, the bodies reached down to the living.
A shot fired in the distance.
“Valeryn.” Just as Drake turned toward the sound coming from the sea something buzzed past his head. A spear. It impaled Hotchkins’ arm to a tree. The tar cried out in agony.
“We’re under attack!” Drake drew his flintlock.
Pikes whirred past at frightening speeds. A spear hit its mark and one of his men collapsed. The men fired their muskets into the jungle at the invisible attackers.
“Sam!” Drake thrust his finger to Hotchkins and the colossal giant ripped the blade from both his injured man and the tree trunk.
A flash of flesh darted between trees, then to another and another. Drake anticipated the next move and fired his pistol, felling his enemy.
“Indians! Fall back! Fall back!”
Large fronds slapped at Drake’s face as he fled. Palmetto palms poked and scratched against his trouser legs. Spears flew past, embedding into the ground and ripping through foliage. He and his men burst through the copse and took cover among the longboats and driftwood logs.
Natives poured from the jungle. Dozens of them. They cried out in fierce yaps and howls. Black hair pulled tight on the crowns of their heads exaggerated their wild, crazed expressions. Red-and-black war paint decorated the bronzed skin of their arms, legs, faces and backs. Some of the heathens carried muskets. Others brandished knives. Items traded or plundered from shipwrecks along the coast.
Spear after spear rained down around Drake and his men. Musket balls splintered the timber of their meek defenses. His crew bravely fired, reloaded and fired again. But their fate looked bleak. There were just too damn many of them. Their only recourse was to dive into the surf, swim for the ship and hope they wouldn’t be picked off. Unfortunately, some of his men didn’t know how to swim. He wouldn’t leave them behind. The idea of every man for himself was out of the question. To the death he would stand for his loyal crew. He owed them that.
“Keep firing, men!”
Smoke from rifle fire thickened and the winds were slow to blow them away. Through the haze, the natives crouched low and advanced. We’re outnumbered. Bones is what we are. Ammunition ran low and he primed his rifle one last time. They were ill-prepared for the sheer number of their enemy. Nothing left but hand-to-hand combat. A mighty fine way to die. But not before he took a few of the bastards with him.
A loud boom resonated over the fighting. A moment later, the sand before them exploded, sending bodies through the air. Another boom and another cannon ball cratered the beach. The natives scattered, retreating back into the jungle.
Puffs of smoke drifted from the Rissa’s gun ports.
“Well, lay me bleeding,” Drake said. He didn’t expect Willie and Henri to run out a gun. Neither were gunners. He wasn’t sure they had ever fired the shipboard guns before this day. An involuntary shiver slithered down his spine at the sheer luck of not being blown to pieces by his own men.
Pops of gunfire erupted again. Valeryn and his men gathered on the larboard beam of the stranded vessel. They were taking aim at the salvager as it steered away into open waters.
“What the hell?” Drake clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Get the wounded back into the boats. Make smart with it. We’ve got to get back to the Rissa.”
He didn’t have a good feeling about this.
Reaching his ship, a fire under his arse couldn’t have made Drake scale up the ladder faster.
“You boys fired not a moment too soon, Willie,” he said, jumping over the railing.
Valeryn paced the deck. Willie rubbed at his wrists; a rope lay at his feet.
“Those heathens were about to skin us alive,” Drake admitted. “You must’ve had a devil of a time clearing the lashings from the guns.”
“We had help.” Willie fiddled for his tobacco pouch. Drake suspected it was more out of keeping his hands busy than the need of the dried leaves. “Miss McCoy got a lot of strength for such a tiny lass. ’Twas her idea to fire the guns.”
“Was it?” The songbird continued to surprise him. Pride warmed his heart, cracking and chipping the iciness in which it had been encased for what seemed a lifetime. Many moons had passed since he felt pride for another person. ’Twas a red-letter day watching one of his best mates become a father. Now, because Gilly, his sweet Gilly, induced the rare emotion, the sentiment meant all the more to him.
He smiled. “Where is her ladyship?”
“She’s gone. Henri, too.” Willie had a pinch of tobacco poised to go into his lip. He exhaled and put the pinch back into the pouch. “They took ’em.”
“What?” Drake looked to Valeryn, his gut clenching. “Who took them? That salvager?”
Valeryn wiped his palm down his face. The frustration and anguish in the austere lines of his frown said it all.
“That was the Alligator, wasn’t it?” Anger built in him like the crescendo of battle music. “That blackguard, Lynch, took her?”
“No, sir,” Willie said. “Not by way ya thinkin’. Some fella Miss McCoy called Mather stole off with ’er.”
“Son of a bitch!” How had Drake been so foolish to underestimate an alliance between Lynch and Mather? Abel, the little prick, must’ve seen the confrontation Drake had with the conch captain before they sailed to New Providence and brought him into an accord with Mather. Now the meeting at the Bristol Inn made sense.
Drake should have hocked and heaved Abel to the sharks when he had the chance.
What could Mather offer Lynch to have the salvager chance getting into a clash with the Rissa? Drake’s ship outgunned the Alligator. His ship would be severely damaged, if Drake was feeling generous not to destroy her. It would take Lynch months to get back to salvaging and turtling.
“This Mather fella and a few men boarded Rissa whilst we were loadin’ the guns,” Willie said. “Didn’t even see them ’til they had a flintlock to her temple. I couldn’t do a thing, not without risking her life. They tied me ta the mast and kicked Henri in his bum leg.” He looked away, having been incapable to fight off their assailants tormenting him. “Quick as they came, they left. Henri, the foolish tar, took to the ropes after them. He boarded alright, that’s a true word. But Alligator dogs swarmed ’em.” Willie slowly shook his head. “Don’t know what they’ll do to ’em,” he said in a muted voice.
Drake’s mind reeled. Mather had Gilly. If they were promised to be wed, Drake should not interfere. To do so invited a challenge against Mather and an unspoken promise for Gilly’s hand in marriage. Taking Mather up on his threat and spilling his blood would be a genuine pleasure. But Drake’s intentions with Gilly were completely unclear, even to him. He wanted her, there was no denying that fact. He wanted her like no other, if only for a while. He needed more time with her, to hear her glorious singing, to laugh at her silly dances, to explore her. Not just her body, but her mind, her soul.
She didn’t want him. He had violated her in the most unforgiving, immoral way. There was no going back. She hated him. He deserved nothing less. All the years he stepped in to protect a woman from evil slime who would rape, torture and butcher her had been obliterated by his passion-laced lack of self-control with Gilly.
He had no time for self-loathing. Henri was on that ship and Drake wouldn’t let him down. If he was still alive, Drake would see to it Henri set foot on the Rissa again. Besides, not only was the manikin a loyal friend, he was a damned good cook.
“Get the men on board and the longboats secured,” Drake commanded. “Set a southwesterly course. We’ve got a ship to catch.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Don’t hurt him!” Gilly struggled against the hold Turk had on her arm. The more she wrestled, the tighter his grip. He dug in, hurting her. She reached around, grabbing his nose and giving it a hard twist.
“Yeow!” Turk let go and cupped his snout.
Gilly rushed into the melee surrounding Henri. The Lilliputian hollered and cursed. He swung wild punches with his knobby fists. Gilly shoved and elbowed her way through, pinching flesh and tugging earlobes, until she reached him. She knelt beside Henri, giving the bunch of them a sharp glare.
Poor Henri. He looked a terrible disheveled mess. His beard bows hung askew and one had gone missing.
“Are you all right?”
“Nay, lass. Busted me crippled leg up when I hit the deck.”
“’Twas very brave of you.” She smiled. Though he now was in dreadful trouble.
Laughter, cruel and menacing, reached her ears. The crowd of rapscallions parted for Mather.
“Give me leave to say, I’ve never seen a dwarf fly.”
“I’m not a dwarf!” Henri shook his balled fist.
“It was a jolly good show.” Mather ignored Henri’s tirade. “You’ve got about as much sense boarding this ship as you do height.”
Henri growled like a rabid hound. Gilly put her arm around him to keep him calm.
“Now that you are here, what shall I do with you?” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “Hmm,” he mocked. “What possibilities.”
Turk piped in. “Don’t dwarfs juggle and dance funny? Make ’im dance funny.”
“No, no,” Mather corrected. “You’re thinking of a jester with the ridiculous hat. Though with those ribbons, he might pass for one.”
“Ya bloody bastards.” Henri spat. “I’ll see your gizzard cut out and fry it up fer supper!”
“Amusing.” Mather’s humor faded. “Shackle him in the cage below until I decide his fate.” Two ruffians snapped Henri up. He fought against them until a third man trained his pistol on him.
“As for you, my dear, we’ve a matter to discuss,” Mather said. “The fine Captain Lynch has offered the use of his quarters.”
Captain Lynch swaggered to stand beside Mather. He bowed his head. “’Tis wonderful ta see you again, Miss McCoy.”
Gilly stood, squaring her shoulders and facing the lecherous blackguard. “I find it disappointing that you are in league with this man, Captain Lynch.” She raised a pert brow. “Did you know he is a murderer?”
Mather laughed, throwing up his hands in a You got me. I’m guilty gesture.
“We all have our aberrations, lassie,” Lyn
ch said. “His transgressions are no concern o’ mine.”
“It will be when he comes to put a bullet through you.”
The captain smiled kindly. “Duly noted, Miss McCoy.”
“Enough prattle.” Mather extended a hand to guide Gilly inside the ship’s interior.
She declined. She’d rather pet a vicious viper than touch the wretch.
Mather tipped his chin to Turk. The lout yanked her arm and hauled her forward.
“Might I compliment ya on yer attire, lassie,” Lynch said. “Never has a girl looked so lovely in trousers.”
Gilly felt the Irishman’s eyes upon her bottom. Arsehole.
“And the blue sash flatters ya waist. Your purse tied into the sash adds a soft womanly touch.”
“Compliments will not erase your involvement to this injustice, Captain Lynch.”
“Injustice?” Mather snorted. “Let us speak plain of injustice.”
Turk jostled Gilly to sit at one end of a banquet table in the captain’s cabin. Mather sat adjacent to her. Lynch poured himself a drink and took the seat at the other end of the table. He stared at her, appreciation sparkling in his gaze. She squirmed under his scrutiny. Shackle her up in the bilge and throw away the key, but don’t leave her alone with Lynch.
“Mew not, Gillian,” Mather continued. “And let me tell you a tale. Indeed, ’tis a very sad story of a gamester.” He pulled a pair of dice from his jacket and laid them down. “We’ll give the gamester a name, Hyde. Hyde was very good at rolling bones and playing cards. He was even better at cheating. An investor had been watching Hyde and knew that the gambler, charming as he was, could lure unwary persons into a game. Hyde had a real gift. The investor struck a bargain with Hyde. He’d lend Hyde large sums so Hyde would have pockets deep enough to play against goldfinches. His winnings were extraordinary and Hyde’s cut was more than generous.
“But then Hyde got greedy and thought to diddle the investor. I don’t like to be cheated and when I went to claim my latest prize, Hyde refused to cooperate. Hyde had been pilfering off the top of the winnings. He had help, of course. I wouldn’t let him play with my money without having one of my men with him at all times.” Mather scooped up the dice, rolling them between his fingers. “I hated to kill Pippin for his involvement. He was a goodly servant.”
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