Surrender in Moonlight

by Jennifer Blake

  She reached up, touched the lamp base. It wobbled in the gimbals. She pushed upward, trying to get a grip on the smooth metal. The lamp tilted, burning brighter behind its glass globe. She pushed again, lunging a little even as she spared a glance for Nate, who was grunting, tearing at her clothing.

  The lamp came free. She juggled for purchase, but could not find it. It revolved, falling, pouring hot oil. She turned her head swiftly, shrinking to one side. The oil splashed down, hitting Nate's shoulder, soaking in. He jerked up with a strangled cry. His elbow struck the lamp, deflecting its course. It described an arc in the air, streaming oil, and hurtled against the edge of the bunk with a crash and the tinkling of shattered glass. Oil spewed over the bed coverings before the lamp thudded to the floor. For an instant, it lay with the wick fluttering in the broken mess, long enough for Nate to slew around. Then, with a violent wafting of hot air, the room erupted in flames.

  Nate staggered back, beating at the shoulder of his jacket where blue fire danced. This did no good, and he dragged it off, flinging it from him. With his eyes darting from his head, he ran to pick up the pillow from the floor and began to beat at the leaping flames that threatened to consume the cabin.

  Lorna jerked up her gown to cover herself, then swooped down on the burning jacket on the floor. She coughed with the smoke that boiled around her as she slapped at the flames, pushing her hand into first one pocket and then the other. At last she came up with what she sought: the key. Scrambling to her feet, she took the long step that would bring her to the door, trying to ram the key into the lock. Her hands shook, so that she could not make it work for a long instant; then, it was in, turning. She snatched open the heavy panel, half-falling out into the passage.

  Only then did she realize how airless the cabin had become in that short time, and how hot. Behind her, with the flesh influx of air, the fire burned brighter, higher. A man appeared down the companionway ahead of her. He took one look, then began to yell.

  A large portion of the crew of the Avenger pounded down from above, pushing past her on the run. She huddled against the wall of the passage as they crowded inside the cabin. Then, she picked up her skirts and made for the companionway.

  On deck the wind was cool, the night wide and dark. She stood at the railing, breathing deep, trying to stop the trembling that shook her. She could not. Faintly, the shouts of the men as they fought the fire came to her. The ship was old and the timbers dry. Apparently the flames had gotten more of a foothold than she had thought possible in so short a time. Smoke poured up out of the companionway, and there was a red glow just beyond where she stood, where the porthole of that cabin opened. As she swung to stare, she saw fire licking up toward the deck from that direction.

  The captain of the ship ran past her with a frowning stare, on his way below. A short time later, Nate came staggering up, coughing, his face black and his hair singed away on one side of his head. He leaned on the rail, then with a grunted curse bent down to pull a large piece of glass from the soft leather side of his boot. By that time, smoke was puffing from the hatches of the ship, forming a haze over the deck, and the flames were leaping higher than the railing in tongues of yellow and orange and red. Lorna moved farther along, putting more distance between her and Nate, moving too from the heat of the fire.

  There were shouts as the crew came flooding up from the cabin, choking, coughing, their eyes streaming from the smoke, so that wet tracks were formed in the soot on their faces. They were followed by the captain, who flung himself on deck with a handkerchief over his face and looked around for Nate. Seeing him at the rail some distance down from Lorna, he stepped up to him.

  "The fire can't be controlled. We will have to abandon ship."

  Nate swung to stare at him. "You yellow-livered bastard! Why don't you try saving her?"

  "It's impossible. She's an old ship, dry as tinder, with new pitch to catch like kerosene. She'll be gone in half an hour." The captain's face was stem, and it was plain he had no use for the man who paid his salary. "Of course, if you would like to try?"

  Nate cursed again, then turned toward Lorna. Pushing from the railing, he bore down on her. "It's your fault, you bitch! You're the one who caused it."

  The captain caught him by the shoulder. "There's no time for that. We have to get the boats away."

  "Then do it and be damned!" Nate shrugged from the man's grasp, never taking his pale, red-rimmed eyes from Lorna.

  She watched him move toward her, knowing that there was more than lust and a need to make her feel his power over her in his move toward her now. He was congealed in rage, swollen with masculine affront that she not only had dared defy him, but had succeeded, that she had caused him pain and brought down on him the scorn of his captain and crew, to say nothing of his investment in gold going up with the ship. Every urge for vengeance he had felt was magnified a hundred times, and he meant her to feel it.

  "You bitch, you beautiful, twice-damned bitch," he said with grating bitterness.

  She would not run from him, would not retreat so much as a step. She stared at him with the red light of the fire reflecting on her pale face and the wind catching the shimmering cascade of her wild silk hair, blowing it around her. Her gray eyes were still and deep, and the trembling of her hands had died away, leaving her calm. She did not move, showed no fear, even when she saw the piece of glass he still held in his hand, a blackened shard from the broken lamp chimney.

  Behind him, on the far side of the ship, there was a shout and familiar clatter of metal on wood. They were lowering the lifeboats. Time was growing short, the air that blew along the deck scorching as the fire roared. Nate did not appear to notice. He moved closer, his formless lips thinning, drawing back in a smile, his gaze fixed on the pure line of her cheek where it curved, blending over her jawbone into the tender arch of her neck. He shifted the sliver of glass in his hand, holding it with a razor-sharp corner exposed.

  In the sooty darkness of his face could be seen the dark red streaks of the gouges her nails had made, the split of his lip. His shirt was charred where his jacket had burned, and through the black-edged rent could be seen the angry welts of burns. His victory was not bloodless. And if he did not kill her, she would see that he suffered more. She would not be cowed, would not take fear for a master. She would not.

  She lifted her chin in silent defiance. His eyes narrowed. He raised his hand. Beyond them there were shouts and outcries. Bound in their own private drama, they did not see.

  There came the whipping whir of a rope through the air, a loosened sheet from the rigging. The shadow of a man flitted over the deck, engulfed in swirls of smoke, tinged with the red of flame. The air near Lorna shifted, rushing, and Ramon released the rope that carried him, landing lightly on his feet in front of her.

  But, Nate had at the last moment looked up, had reached to grab Lorna around the waist, wrenching her against him. Now, he stood with the glass shard held against the pulse that beat in her throat.

  Ramon balanced with his hands held out, going perfectly still. He wore no shirt to hinder his movements, only his uniform trousers tucked into his boots, and his gold-fringed sash at his waist to hold the pistol thrust into it and the sword that hung at his side. His face was stern and his dark eyes steely as he gave Lorna a brief, all-encompassing glance. Then, he turned his concentration on the man who held her.

  "One move," Nate said, "and I'll slit her throat."

  "If you so much as scratch her, you won't draw another breath," Ramon answered, his voice soft. Behind him, his crew had boarded, crossing from the Lorelei that was held to the side of the Avenger by grappling irons. They met no resistance, however, but were, rather, cheered as saviors.

  "Oh, I'll do more than that, later, but first I want that pistol you have there."

  "No," Lorna breathed, and felt the glass press into her neck, though it did not quite break the skin.

  "Keep quiet, bitch."

  Ramon's face hardened. "I don't care fo
r your tone, or your words."

  Another time, it might have been laughable. Ramon was fluently and colorfully profane on occasion, though never with Nate Bacon's considered vulgarity. It was the practice as it applied to her that he objected to at that moment. Or was it, possibly, only a play for time.

  "That's too bad, isn't it?" Nate sneered, enjoying the feel of having the upper hand.

  "Is it?" Ramon, his eyes intent, straightened slowly and took the pistol from his sash.

  "Reverse it," Nate grated.

  Ramon complied, holding the barrel of the gun in the palm of his hand.

  Nate could not hold the glass and grasp the pistol both. He realized it at the same time Lorna did. He hesitated. She braced herself. He dropped the glass, snatching for the pistol, and in that moment, she shoved, jostling him with her shoulder. At that exact instant, Ramon deliberately let the pistol fall. Nate gave Lorna a hard shove, diving at the same time for the weapon. Ramon made no effort to retrieve it. Instead, there was the singing rasp of his sword as he drew it from its scabbard. At the same time, he stepped in front of Lorna, shielding her where she had stumbled to her knees against the railing.

  Nate came up crouching over the pistol. His pale eyes widened, protruding as he saw the sword, but he was beyond rational thought or action. He drew back the hammer and jerked the trigger of the firearm. It went off at point-blank range, belching fire and smoke, the report deafening. Lorna screamed. Ramon flung himself to one side, dropping into a swordsman's stance. He did not pause. His face a grim mask, he stepped to drive the yard of shining steel he held deep into Nate's chest.

  Nate's hands came up to clutch at the blade. He choked on a froth of red, then fell back as Ramon withdrew the sword. The ship plunged into a wave and rose as if shaking herself, with saltwater hissing against the fire that ate at her entrails. Nate rolled beneath the railing. Ramon grabbed for him, but he went over, falling limp in death into the sea.

  Lorna drew a sobbing breath. Ramon thrust his blade into its sheath and swung to her, drawing her to her feet and gathering her close, pressing her face into his shoulder.

  I'm sorry," he said, his voice low, "sorry you had to see that."

  She shook her head. "No," then said again more fiercely, "No!" She was glad that she had seen, glad that she could be certain, once and for all, that the thing between herself and Nate Bacon was over.

  His arms tightened, a safe haven enclosing her, infinitely comforting. A moment later, he stirred. "You are all right, chérie?"

  She straightened, giving a small nod, the smile that she summoned tremulous. "Now, I am."

  "We lost the federal cruiser, but the fire will be a beacon for miles, drawing it the same way it drew us, though by God's fortune and Frazier's guesswork we were closer. We have to go."

  "Yes, of course."

  He stared down at her an instant longer, as if assessing her strength and her well-being for himself, independent of her assurances. Then, a smile curved the firm lines of his mouth, lighting the darkness of his eyes. Inclining his head in what might have been a sign of admiration, he took her hand in his strong grasp and turned toward where the Lorelei waited.

  But, he was right. Before they were a cable's length away from the doomed ship, the cruiser hove in sight out of the west, her running lights glimmering across the waves. Ramon had conferred with Frazier, and they were running south-southwest on a course that would take them back toward safety in the neutral waters of the islands. The captain of the federal ship was able to see them plainly in the flaring light of the burning hulk behind them. The vessel swung to cut them off.

  Ramon and Slick, standing near the wheel, watched the cruiser maneuver. "We could swing north as soon as we're out of sight," the lanky north Louisianian said.

  "How is the coal holding out?"

  It was Chris, who stood with Lorna and Frazier on the other side of the helmsman, who spoke. "The stokers are scraping the bottom and there's maybe a few hundred cotton bales left. They are standing by with the axes to start on the woodwork again."

  Two hundred bales of cotton left out of over seven hundred fifty, figured at a little over one hundred fifty dollars each, meant that they had sent nearly a hundred thousand dollars' worth of cotton up in smoke out the stack and would be forced to send the rest. If Ramon had counted the cost, or even considered it, there was no sign.

  Ramon shook his head, his eyes dark with swift and cogent calculation. "We can't risk it."

  "We can outrun 'em, head for one of the harbors of the northeast cays," Frazier suggested.

  "It will be not quite dawn when we reach there," Ramon said, his comment an indication that the alternative had been in his mind already. "Can you find your way in over the reef?"

  "I can find a place to drop anchor in a hurricane at midnight, if you can get her that far."

  Ramon nodded. "Full speed ahead, then."

  As the order was whistled down the pipe to the engine room, Lorna heard Slick say under his breath, "And the devil take the hindmost."

  Nothing impeded the progress of the cruiser, however. It inched closer and closer. There came the moment when the captain thought it possible to intercept, so near did their courses run. The federal ship yawed to fire a broadside. The cannonade boomed, blossoming in lurid colors along the side of the great ship, creating a vast, rolling explosion of sound that struck them even as the shells fell in their wake. The time the cruiser lost in coming about again gave them an advantage, one they did not fail to take. They sped on with a short lead, racing into the darkness of the night.

  The chase was enjoined. It was as if the captain of the federal ship divined their intent, for though he could not see them as they ran with all lights extinguished, he hung behind them like a terrier after a rat. The winking glow of his own lamps, seen as they bobbed up and down on the waves, now vanishing, now appearing again, was a mocking threat. More threatening still was the firefly gleam of sparks that flew from the cruiser's stack, indicating a plentiful supply of rough, but adequate coal.

  It was the shortest night ever seen in the world, and the clearest dawn. Not even a smudge of cloud hung in the sky, and the face of the water sparkled, so free of mist or fog that visibility extended unimpaired to the distant horizon. What could not be seen was the island.

  Lorna stood on the crowded deck, staring ahead in the limpid light of early morning, feeling its freshness on her face. Around them, some of the men from the other ships sat or lay rolled in blankets, though most stood watching, waiting. That the freedom of every man-and woman-on board was at stake was something well understood. Moreover, if they received heavy fire from the cruiser, with so many packed onto their ship, there were bound to be severe losses.

  During the night, Lorna had worked in the sick bay with Chris, treating burns and cuts, removing splinters, helping to bandage more difficult wounds. As she worked, she asked again and again for news of Peter from the survivors from the Bonny Girl, but no one had seen him, none could remember where he had been when the gunpowder had ignited. Most of those who had been physically able to make their presence in the water known had been picked up, she discovered, but there had been little time to spend searching. The safety of Ramon's own men had decreed that he abandon the area before the threat of the cruiser. There was only one thing that was certain. Peter was not aboard the Lorelei.

  She tried not to dwell on it, but could not prevent her mind from returning again and again to the image of the Bonny Girl being blown apart, of men being tossed about on her decks like rag dolls. Death in these times was not an awesome thing, but mean and ugly and quickly over.

  "Land! Land, three points on the port bow!"

  Lorna jerked from her reverie at the railing, moving toward the wheel. Ramon had donned a shirt during the night and removed his sword, so that he looked more like a captain again, instead of a pirate. He and Slick were talking in low tones, throwing a glance now and then at the cruiser stilt trailing them. Following their example, she frow
ned. The federal ship seemed closer than when last she had noticed. On closer inspection, she saw that the great vessel had more sail set, to catch the freshening breeze of dawn. With her quarry now in sight, she was straining to close the gap between them, and she was gaining.

  Lorna turned as Chris, his movements quick, came up, sketching a quick salute as he stopped before Ramon.

  "What did you find?"

  "They have picked up the last bits of the coal with a tweezer and used a pan for the dust. The cotton is gone, also the tobacco, right up in smoke. The same for the chairs, the tables, the paddle boxes, and most of the deck cabin. The question is, do you want to cut down the masts or hang sails on them?"

  If they burned the masts, they might steam a little longer; if they set sails, they could move a knot or so faster as the power of the wind was added to that of the engines. The canvas they could carry on their shortened masts could not equal that of the cruiser, however. It was a difficult decision.

  "Frazier," Ramon said, swinging to face the islander. "How far?."

  "An hour to the reef, two hours to a harbor," came the laconic reply.

  He glanced at Slick. "Speed?"

  "At the last cast of the line, eleven knots. Not bad, considering what we're burning. I figure theirs at maybe thirteen. And I'd say she was six, maybe seven miles off."

  "If we could lighten-" Frazier began, then stopped abruptly. The cotton and turpentine and tobacco they had carried had been turned to fuel, and they were fast ridding themselves of the bulk of the ship itself. The only thing left to jettison was the human cargo, the extra men they had picked up from the two other ships, and that was clearly impossible. The islander made a face. "If we had just a little more coal, we could turn west, make the cruiser come about and lose the wind."

  "If," Slick said. "Anyway, she'd dog our track all the way to the Florida coast."