The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series)

by Schulz, Marilyn M

  Was Kate afraid? Where was she by now? On some auction block, perhaps, or in some Arab’s bed?

  Maybe she was dead.

  No, he didn’t want her dead, not yet. He wanted her to suffer a long while first. Like he had suffered ever since the scornful words of her mother.

  “Katherine.”

  He didn’t mean for her to die. The world was lonely with her gone. They left soon after, the whole Senlis clan: Kate, and Matteson, her father, and his brothers and their families too. The settlement faded away and Ambrose’s father lost all that he had invested in the trading post. With not traffic through back and forth in the wilderness, the British had no more use for them either.

  “A fool’s venture,” his father often said, as he got drunk over and over again in grief at what might have been. But the man had never regretted living there. Never regretted his choice to support the British.

  His father put it down to luck that he had survived the frontier at all. His father listened to his Red Skin mother too much. But losing the war in America was the final blow, and his father never again climbed out of the bottle.

  If Ambrose’s own mother had lived, it might have been different. She had not known that her new husband was part savage. When he took her to America, and she found out, she went crazy. Or so Ambrose’s grandmother had said. His mother was locked in the attic much of his life, but she was not the family’s only secret.

  Now that he was older, he wondered if she was locked away because she would have gone back to England and told everyone the truth. It would have been the end of his father’s position. All those privileged friends would have never helped him again. She would have sacrificed her marriage and her only child too, for spite and social position.

  Women were selfish; he knew that. They left you when you needed them most. They tempted you too. They made life a separate kind of hell.

  “Katherine,” he said again.

  “You there, what’s that you’re saying?” the priest call. “Are you saying your Hail Mary’s then? I didn’t take you for a Catholic, and what did you do to deserve them?”

  Standish waved him away with his hand, then swatted at another fly. “Don’t you have a stable for that mule? He stinks.”

  “That’s not the mule, that’ll be his droppings. There’s a pitchfork over there in the shade. Take the mess to the pile by the rose garden if you want to be useful. Move over there if you don’t.”

  The priest pointed to the large villa that had been requisitioned by the French troops. There were roses growing all along the wall. The priest tended those gardens too, and Standish suspected the priest listened at open windows and doors as well.

  The French here were a token force, all things considered, but it now numbered more soldiers than villagers.

  “You said they would be here by now,” Standish said, moving to the shade and away from the mule.

  The priest looked at the sun and then shrugged. “Mea culpa, if I got the wrong day.”

  “Wrong day?” Ambrose felt himself getting angry. The buzzing started in his head.

  His grandmother’s voice was coming again; he couldn’t let her get out.

  “Crazy old hag,” he whispered.

  He put his fingers to his temples and rubbed. Then he forced himself to breath deeply, counting ten times slowly. It was something his father had taught him, he had done it since he was young. There was much of his mother in him, and he knew it concerned his father as well.

  The priest was watching him, but he no longer cared.

  “Well, shake my hand and call me Irish. Here they are, after all, coming right along,” the priest said with some relief, but now pointing down the road. Then he got on with his business, whistling while he worked the ground near the flowers.

  The three riders were decked out in military finery, garish really, which they dared not to wear when they were in England and Gibraltar, Standish knew. Most spies preferred a more discrete entrance, even on friendly ground.

  One had some kind of plumage on his hat and horse with finer livery than the others. He was obviously the ranking officer, and Standish approached him while ignoring the others.

  The show of contempt seemed to work. The man with the hat nodded in greeting, while the others stayed back with their horses.

  “Senor Standish, we had not expected to see you again.”

  “I am not here on your business, sir, er, senor, but on the business of others that also might concern you.”

  “Others?”

  “Not your foe, but possibly your ally, I assure you that it is your own choice.”

  The Spanish Don thought for a moment, rubbing his chin. He glanced back to the others, and then he went to murmur amongst them. If the priest was watching or listening, Standish could not tell. It was hot in the sun and no help in the shade. He felt a drop of sweat run down his back.

  Damned dark woolen clothing was not meant for this climate. Still, it looked severe, impressive, serious. He thought it was something they might expect.

  His grandmother said in his head, “Fat little boy, you sweat like a pig.”

  “Continue,” the Don said, on his return.

  Standish glanced around. “Not here, let us find some refreshment.”

  He meant the cantina where he knew the girls were particularly luscious. He hadn’t been with a woman since he raped Katherine Senlis, but sometimes he felt that he should have the urge. Or at least he ought to be seen to have the urge. Otherwise other men might think the lesser of him.

  The Don called, “Padre?” He spoke the rest in Spanish.

  The priest answered in English. “Cool water, it is. And honored we are, senor, that we are. Allow me to attend your horses.”

  The Don agreed, the priest took the mounts as the officers and Standish went into the church.

  Inside, the Spaniards crossed themselves at the sight of the Altar, and then took a seat in the back pews. Standish wasn’t sure what to do, but he heard his grandmother laughing.

  He could not pass for a Catholic, he knew. Not here. He could pass for a man of God in England and on the frontier, but he decided not to risk his ruse being an excuse for them to stray from the deal.

  No, he had to play that part straight.

  Standish sat in a pew near the others.

  “You said ally,” the Don said, thanking the padre as he brought around cups and poured them cool water from a pitcher.

  “Lemon?” the padre said. “I only have a touch of sugar. Might be more sour than you prefer.”

  They declined. Standish could hear as he grandmother spat. He glanced down at his shoes, not sure if there would be tobacco there, as usually had come out of the old hag’s mouth.

  He glanced over to the confessionals. Standish waited for the padre to disappear, but he did not. Instead, he started sweeping near.

  “You may speak plainly here,” the Don said. “This is a house of God, there are no secrets here.”

  Damn, Standish thought, and glared at the priest who only smiled blandly in his work. The look on their faces was both surprise and disgust. Had he said the word out loud? Did he swear in the church with these men to hear?

  The priest cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I think you stepped into something you should not have done.”

  His eyes got big, and Standish blinked, fighting to keep his calm. How much did this priest know? Standish thought he had hidden his travels well enough. Was he in danger? Had this all been a ruse, and they now played him for a fool?

  Certainly this information had value? Maybe this was all just a trick to get it for free—or worse, to catch him.

  Standish’s eyes darted around, looking for escape. Two of the Spaniards turned away, and the other made a face. Standish knew it was over. They said they were going to kill him if he failed. He hadn’t failed them before, but it was true that he had come here with blackmail on his mind.

  This was their country. They ruled here, and he had no recourse.
He wished he had more than one pistol. At least he would not go down alone.

  Could it really be over this quickly? All his plans? All his maneuvers and schemes?

  To his horror, he started to cry.

  His grandmother gasped in her own kind of horror, and she hissed out for him to be silent. Standish held his breath as one of them grew near. He put a hand to his knife hidden under his vest.

  The priest leaned over and scraped at the floor with the broom. “Sure now, it’s only a little manure,” he said, and knelt down to scrap Ambrose’s boot. “Next time, you should be watching where you’re walking, for the mule doesn’t watch his own behind. After all, this is a church.”

  The Spanish chuckled, but Standish could see the contempt in their eyes. Did they know all that he had been thinking? Had they heard his grandmother too?

  He felt the sweat on his forehead then, and more of it running down his back. It was her fault, why did she always have to come around to haunt him. They must know.

  The Don held out a paper. Standish could see its significance, but he didn’t want to take it to look any closer, for he was sure that his hand would shake.

  The real American diplomat had presented his real credentials. This wasn’t a cover, he wasn’t a spy—he was just a crook. His grandmother spit out the word with her tobacco again: Coyote.

  Coyote, the trickster, but it was only partly true. Standish had once been a minor adjutant, someone to see to the papers in and out of the safe. He poured the drinks, gathered the teacups, lit the cigars.

  But no more—they no longer had need of his services in the American diplomatic service. Not since his father died and the true history of their family was known. Then it was discovered that the man they had all come to honor had been an unrepentant Tory and his son had been a Tory too. Ambrose might have talked his way out of that, but there had been worse. His father was the bastard son of a savage slut who kept his own English wife as-good-as-imprisoned for years.

  But that was the Americans. How much did the Spanish know? And how much did it matter?

  He was in danger here; he glanced to the priest. They would not kill him in a church, at least that gave him some time. The bargain would not be made for profit now, but for his life.

  * * * * *

  Sir Edward didn’t figure it would be a tearful goodbye, but he thought she would at least see him before she went. Still, the ways of women were a mystery to him, and one he had long since ceased to study.

  Sir Humphrey had been frustrated in his efforts to arrest Ambrose Standish. Still, the warrant was out, and Sir Edward considered his duty done in that quarter. Sir Humphrey had no quarrel with him returning to sea.

  Blockade was lucrative business, and so far they were doing quite well. The tides in Europe were turning against the British, but he had faith that the Royal Navy would stand strong as always.

  The French Republicans, to the surprise of most, offered an impressive resistance with their ships—new ships, fine ships. But their captains and their crews lacked experience, and more importantly, lacked the discipline of the British.

  The taste of freedom was too enticing to the French common man, and on occasion, the crew would override their captain. In many battles, the British ships won out, not from superior vessels or tactics, but from shear arrogance and gall.

  It was a heady feeling, and Sir Edward felt it as well as the rest. These were their best hunting grounds, but like the rest of his officers, he now stood on the deck of the Stalwart, frustrated by the fog.

  It had been with them for almost three days.

  They could hear the other ships, knew they would be easy pickings. Some were merchantmen, he knew, but others would seem to be drifting without purpose. Privateers most likely, ships looking to take advantage of the war and prey on whatever sailed their way. They might be waiting for a clear shot at the ships of commerce too.

  Privateers, pirate ships, corsairs—it didn’t matter, it was all the same kind of battle. The Stalwart would make short work of them as well, but the profit was somewhat less when they had the damage of battle.

  Suddenly, a vessel sliced through the fog quite near the Stalwart’s bow. In fact, they almost collided.

  She was there, and then gone, just like that.

  He opened his mouth to order pursuit, but he stopped. His officers had rushed forward to catch a glimpse of the prey. But they too had halted and fell silent, not quite sure what it was that they just saw.

  Maybe it was illusion, a phantom of the mist.

  The red hull had slipped past in utter silence on their starboard side. Its rails and portals were also painted blood red. So was the scrollwork, which was ornate, possibly Oriental.

  Through the thick but patchy fog, they caught a glimpse of the ship once and then again. Several women seemed to be milling about the deck. In the rigging above the others, three women hung like sea harpies caught in a fisherman’s net.

  Their hair was loose about their shoulders. Bare legs and bare arms peaked through petticoat and camisole, and they held on with certainty to the ropes of the rigging. A show of steel glinted from one of them, a dark-skinned woman, as a random ray of sunlight filtered through the fog and caught her for only a second.

  Then without a sound, the ship was out of sight again.

  What was it? Was it even real?

  “Captain?” Mr. Murray said from just behind him.

  “You are not dreaming of sea nymphs or mermaids, Mr. Murray. Aye, I saw it too. Corsair probably, by the laxness and the look of her.”

  Then something crashed onto the deck below them and splintered into a blast of fire. Cannons roared again in the fog on their port side. That was real enough.

  The fog was not so thick over there. They saw the French colors on the ship that had let fire, and it was now running away.

  Picking a fight, and then changing her mind—a coward’s act, Sir Edward thought. Well, time enough to take care of them all.

  “Make sail, I want that ship,” Sir Edward roared to his bosun, and the Stalwart set off to engage the enemy.

  But Mr. Murray called back, “Captain, which way?”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 36 - Battle

  Within the hour, they found their prey through no fault of their own. It was the cannonade and the savage cries of the boarders that gave the French ship away. It fired on the red corsair and was now grappled and tied up along its port side.

  As they got closer, the British heard the screams of the women.

  “Make haste!” the captain called, but his crew was already busy.

  The French were attacking the women, but no sailors were yet to be seen on the red ship. The Stalwart tied up along the starboard side of the corvette with no fight required at all. They had prepared a boarding party of their own.

  In the rigging above, the British could see the three women watching the mayhem below. One pointed to the Stalwart and called to the others. Another took the blade from her mouth and cut away a rope. She shinnied to the far end of the main topsail spar and swung over to the Stalwart’s own rigging.

  The first woman faltered as the ships bumped together, and she fell down below to the fray. The mixture of the bodies in the tussle broke her fall, and she seemed barely hurt at all.

  She was crawling away on her hands and knees when one of the Frenchmen caught her by the hair. He smashed his knee to her head, she collapsed, and he swiftly crawled upon her. He pushed up her petticoat skirts, now fiddling frantically with his pants. His intent was clearly rape, with no thought to the battle all around them.

  A boarding British officer shot him, and then knelt down by the woman who was still prone.

  By then, the French colors had come down, not in surrender, but replaced by a defiled ensign of the Royal Navy: Deserters from the British, perhaps originally prisoners of war pulled from the sea. They had probably talked the French crew into mutiny, and now the two had joined forces for their own bloody gain.

 
The third woman in the rigging pulled a pistol from her petticoat and fired a round to the pirates below. One screamed and grabbed at his neck, but blood spurted out like a tiny red fountain.

  She crossed herself as Catholics do, then she carefully tossed the pistol below. It bounced off the head of another. That man stopped moving for a second as if frozen from the blow. Then he held his bleeding head, staggered a bit to the rail, and fell overboard.

  She slipped part way down the rigging by then and also cut herself free. She swung across the breathing gap between ships, her petticoat billowing up over her thighs along the way.

  In a few seconds, she staggered to a halt on the quarterdeck of the Stalwart alongside the captain and a couple of the senior officers. She snatched up the strap of her camisole, then wiped at her cheek, leaving a streak of burnt gunpowder behind.

  She pulled the knife from her mouth, Damascus steel, Middle Eastern design, and tossed it to the deck where it stuck quite clean.

  “Permission to come aboard, sir,” she said. “About time you showed up, for the tea was about to go cold.”

  Sir Edward’s mouth went entirely too tight for a moment, then he turned back to the battle on the red corsair. By then, his crew seemed to have all well in hand. The fighting had moved past to the Frenchman beyond.

  He spoke to the side without looking her way, “Madam, it seems that you have the soul and instincts of a pirate.”

  Kate reached to pull up the knife, and then slipped it back into the sheaf tied around her neck and slung between her shoulder blades. She wiped her hands together as if wiping then clean, then put her hands on her hips.

  “A pirate, well . . .” Then she leaned toward one of the other officers and said, “Is that good or bad, do you think?”

  The officers guffawed, just one syllable each before they instantly fell silent.

  “Captain, the French ship has been scuttled,” Mr. Murray called over from the forecastle of the red corsair. “Seems they had a last bit of Republican zeal and do not want us to take her for use in His Majesty’s service.”

  “Very well, salvage what you can and then cut her loose, Mr. Murray,” the captain replied.