“An herbal remedy to prevent irritation,” he muttered, not sure why he was explaining himself. He put the lid back on the tin and stood abruptly, before rounding his desk. “Deal with that,” he said gruffly, motioning at the now soapy water, “and bring me my supper.” The captain turned his attention to some documents on the table as Smith hurried to fulfill his wishes.
Jonathan examined the parchment that had led him this far. It was just a torn scrap bearing a few words and a portion of a pencil drawing, but it pointed to the Lady as the place to find the chest he sought. It was only a step on his journey, however, for inside . . . inside the chest was the answer he was looking for. Once he had it, he would have what he’d been seeking since he first took command.
Wealth.
Power.
Vengeance.
Jonathan smiled grimly at the thought, rubbing at his patch in remembrance. The man who took his eye—who nearly took his life—would pay. In time, he would pay.
“Sir?” Smith’s quiet voice interrupted the captain’s concentration, making him jump. The fact that he was startled irritated him more than anything else.
“Must you prowl about like a timid kitten?” he barked.
Smith started in surprise and before he schooled his features, Jonathan thought he might have spotted another emotion there.
Irritation? No, it was almost . . . fury.
But just as soon as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by the fearful hesitance the captain was rapidly growing accustomed to, and Jonathan thought perhaps he’d imagined it after all.
“Your supper, sir,” Smith said quietly, and Jonathan realized he was holding a covered tray. He studied the boy’s face for one more moment before he slid his papers into a drawer and waved him over. Smith set the tray on the desk, removing the lid and holding it behind his back. Jonathan saw his chest expand as if inhaling the scents released into the room—roasted sausages, potatoes, some fresh vegetables they’d obtained at the last port, and a small loaf of warm bread. Jonathan broke off a piece of the bread and popped it into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of rum.
The loud rumble of the boy’s stomach drew his arched brow.
“Sorry, sir,” Smith said, his face reddening again as he moved closer to the door. “Is there something else you need of me, sir?”
Jonathan chewed on another piece of bread. “When was your last meal, boy?”
He shifted nervously. “Uh, I had some hardtack and salted beef. A little ale . . . earlier.”
“How much earlier?”
The boy’s eyes circled the room, not meeting Jonathan’s as he wrung his hands. “Uh, sometime . . . yesterday. I think.”
The captain sat back in his chair, grunting in irritation. “Yesterday? Of all the . . . “ He tore apart the rest of his bread, laying a few sausages inside before pressing it closed. “Here,” he said, tossing the makeshift meal to the boy. “Eat that.”
Smith crammed the sandwich into his mouth hungrily.
“And in the future, do not be missing meals,” Jonathan added around a mouthful of potato. “You’re skinny enough already, and you’ll need to pull your weight on my ship. I will not have you interrupting my concentration with your growling belly or swooning like some blasted female!”
At that the boy choked, his eyes growing wide as he covered his mouth to keep his food from spraying around the room.
“Good God!” Tremayne growled, rolling his eye as he crossed to the boy and smacked him on the back soundly. Smith continued to cough and Jonathan reached for his tankard, holding it to his lips.
“Have some of this,” he ordered. Smith grabbed at the mug, tilting it back and washing down the food with a large gulp.
Then he began a whole new round of coughing.
“What . . . what is that?” he asked on a wheeze, tears streaming down his scarlet face.
“Rum. What else?”
“I thought it was water.”
The captain laughed. “What man in his right mind drinks water when there’s rum to be had?”
“Captain?” Max appeared in the doorway. He looked confused at the picture before him but knew better than to ask any questions.
“What is it?” Jonathan replied, reaching over the desk and popping a sausage into his mouth.
“We’re nearing Sav-la-mar,” he replied. “Do you want to make port or remain offshore ‘til dawn?”
“Any sign of the Lady?”
“None yet.”
Jonathan rubbed his chin in thought. “They’ve been at sea for months, so they’ll put in to Lucea tonight to take on supplies before making the run to Santa Marta. We’ll stay here, hidden by the shore and set out to intercept them before first light.”
Max nodded. “Aye, Cap’n.” He turned to head back up on deck.
“Max, a word,” Jonathan called after him, casting a glance behind him at Smith before following his first mate into the passageway. He closed the door quietly and lowered his voice.
“Keep an eye on Rafferty,” he ordered. The master gunner had only been on board the Black Arrow for about a month, and although Jonathan didn’t fully trust him, he needed the young man’s expertise with weapons. “He’s shown a particular interest in talk of the Lady, and I’ve heard rumors from his former crew that he’s been known to line his own pockets before the loot has been counted.”
“You think he’d dare after your warning?”
The captain shook his head ruefully. “There’s no telling. Men can be foolish and greedy, men the most foolish of all.”
Baines nodded. “I’ll assign Jenkins to watch him,” he said. “I trust him, and he won’t let Rafferty out of his sight once we board tomorrow.”
“Are the cannons readied?”
“Aye. We’re short on musket balls, but we’ve plenty of chain shot.”
Jonathan nodded in approval. “Good. Good. Don’t let the men overindulge tonight. We’ll need to be up before the sun.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” At that, Max walked down the dim passageway toward the deck stairs and Jonathan turned to re-enter his quarters. He grimaced in anger when he saw young Smith running his finger along the hilt of the cutlass he kept on the shelf behind his desk.
“What are you doing, boy?” he roared. Smith jumped, whirling about and tucking his hands behind his back.
“Sorry, Captain,” he stammered, his eyes wide. “I didn’t mean anything.”
Jonathan crossed the room, catching the boy up by the collar of his shirt until his toes barely grazed the floor. “Remember, boy,” he spat. “You are on this ship—my ship—at my pleasure. Anger me, and you’ll be feeding the fish after a good flogging.” He shook Smith like a rag to emphasize his point. “Do not touch anything in this room without my expressed permission to do so. Is that clear?”
The boy let out a strangled sound and Jonathan loosened his hold slightly. “I said, is that clear?”
Smith sucked in a breath. “Aye . . . Aye, Captain.”
He released the boy with a shove toward the door. “Off with you, now. Be back at four bells. We set sail before the morning watch.”
Smith ducked his head and ran from the room without another word. Jonathan shook his head in frustration at the boy’s audacity as he turned to consider the cutlass that had held him so enthralled. With a small smile, he pulled it from the shelf, sliding the shining blade from its leather sheath. To most, it would seem like an ordinary sword, he supposed and—except for the single large sapphire set in the hilt—of very little value. Jonathan knew its true worth, however, and it was far beyond the value of the glittering blue stone. He studied the engraving encircling the gem, whispering the now-familiar words aloud.
Dixitque Deus fiat lux et facta est lux.
Latin for And God said, “Let there be light, and there was light.”
The significance of the piece of Scripture, Jonathan was still unsure of. Yet he knew it was another key in the mystery he was endeavoring to solve. One that he would come a ste
p closer to unraveling once he set foot on board the Enchanted Lady.
In the depths of the Black Arrow, the boy called Smith scrambled down the dimly lit passageway, ducking behind casks and into corners whenever anyone else came near. Eventually, he found the door he was looking for, and after a quick glance in both directions to ensure he was not being observed, he slipped silently through it.
The storage room was packed full, but there was just enough room behind a large pile of crates where he had created a small pallet to rest his head. Smith grunted as he shoved a wooden chest in front of the door, praying that it would be enough to deter anyone who might decide to enter. No one had tried as of yet, but he couldn’t be too careful.
Once the door was barricaded, he padded quietly over to his pallet and lowered himself to the ground with a quiet sigh. He rested for a moment, his back braced against the cool wall. He was a bit lightheaded from the large gulp of rum that still burned his throat, and his hands trembled slightly in memory of his terrifying encounter with the captain. He knew, possibly better than anyone, that Jonathan Tremayne was a cutthroat and a barbarian, and Smith would need to be more careful in the future if he was going to stay alive long enough to complete his mission.
Bone-tired, Smith pulled off his cap and released his clubbed hair from its leather thong, running his fingers through the greasy brown strands before scratching at his dirty scalp. He slid the vest from his shoulders, and lifting his oversized shirt, picked at the knot that held the rags bound around his chest. When the cloths finally loosened, Smith unwrapped the rags with a relieved exhale and rubbed at the aching flesh underneath.
The flesh that—were it discovered—would reveal his true identity . . . or rather, her identity. For Smith was not a boy at all, but rather a young woman of nineteen years who had stolen on board the Black Arrow with only one goal in mind.
To kill the captain.
And now that she’d seen the cutlass, she was more determined than ever to accomplish that goal. Touching it for the first time in almost two years, her throat had closed up in anguished memory.
He had loved that sword.
In the distance a bell rang. Only two hours until she would have to become Smith again and appear at Tremayne’s door. She curled her lip in distaste. Becoming his cabin boy gave her a chance she’d been hoping for, but spending any time in close quarters with the man turned her stomach.
Still, she would be near him now, day and night. Near enough to take his miserable life when the opportunity presented itself. She’d been tempted while shaving him, but wasn’t certain she could complete the task before he could bury that damned dagger in her belly.
No, she would be patient. And when Tremayne had his guard down, perhaps even when he was sleeping—or deep in his vile rum—she would take that cutlass into her hand and slit his traitorous throat.
Crass, perhaps. But she had long abandoned the idea of acting as a proper lady. Since the day her father was killed, the sapphire-embellished sword stolen from his still-warm body, and she’d set out to track down his murderer, only to learn that One-Eyed Jack Tremayne was to blame.
She smiled. Perhaps she’d call him that to his face as he bled to death. Few did and survived, but she would.
Aye.
One day soon, Sarina Talbot would have her revenge.
Today, as I perused earlier entries in this record, I realized something I have only as of late began to suspect. My life, such as it is, has become a tedious routine consisting of mundane tasks that no longer hold my interest, if they ever did at all. I trudge to my place of employment every morning, and back home every afternoon, stopping perchance for a pint or a bit to eat. My friends have established themselves and seem content enough, but I remain removed from their happiness, able to observe but not to participate.
I find myself waiting, although I have yet to determine for what.
- The Journal of Simon Alistair Mellick, 4 March, 1664
By the time four bells sounded, Sarina was dressed—her breasts re-bound—and was standing at Captain Tremayne’s door. She had managed to doze a little, but still couldn’t get used to sleeping with the constant noise and activity on board the ship. It was at a frenzied level at that moment; men scurrying here and there readying to get underway. With a deep breath, she rapped on the wooden door while rubbing a knuckle over her gritty eyes.
“Enter!” Tremayne barked. She squared her shoulders before shoving the door open and stepping into the room, nearly giving into a wave of fury as she realized the captain was strapping on her father’s cutlass. He had his back to her, so she forced another deep breath, willing her muscles to relax so to not give away her boiling hatred for the man before her.
The captain shot her a glance over his shoulder. “Did you eat?” he asked gruffly.
“No, sir.”
Tremayne huffed in annoyance and tossed her a piece of hardtack. “There’s ale in the jug,” he growled. “Make haste. There is much to do before we set sail.”
Sarina hurried over to the table, pouring a mug of ale and breaking the hardtack into it quickly. It softened, absorbing the liquid, and she shoveled it into her mouth with a spoon, trying to ignore the bland taste.
“Are you armed, boy?” Tremayne asked as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I’ve a dirk in my boot,” she replied quietly.
“Have you ever used it?”
She shook her head in response, earning another irritated glare. Tremayne crossed to his desk drawer and pulled out a small pistol, handing it to her handle first. “Tuck that into your belt,” he ordered as he turned his back to examine his own flintlocks. “You’ll not be taking part in the raid, but it’s best to be prepared for whatever may happen. I doubt you have the strength to do much damage with a dirk, but any idiot can use a pistol if needed.”
Sarina bristled at the insult and her hand trembled. It would be so simple to lift the pistol . . . to point it at the back of his head . . .
Her hand rose of its own accord, and Sarina focused on the spot where a silken scarf revealed the brown hair trailing over his shoulders and down his back. The beads tied into a few long braids clinked lightly as he worked on his guns and Sarina wondered absently why he let his hair grow so long.
It didn’t matter. The time had come. In a moment, he would be dead.
“You’ll be at my side through the raid,” he said absently. “And I expect my orders to be followed explicitly and immediately.”
“Aye, sir.” The pistol weighed heavily on her outstretched arm as her finger hovered over the trigger. Could she cock it without him hearing? She reached up with her other hand, locking her thumbs over the hammer.
A loud pounding at the door had her dropping her hands to her sides just as Tremayne whirled about. He eyed her curiously, and she wondered if he could see her pounding heart . . . her cold and clammy skin. She lowered her gaze, tucking the pistol securely into her belt as Tremayne turned to the door.
“Enter!” he bellowed.
The first mate, Baines, poked his head into the room. “The men are ready, Cap’n. Shall we weigh anchor?”
The captain grabbed his hat, plopping it onto his head as he neared the door. “Aye,” he answered. “Keep the lanterns out. We don’t want them to know we’re coming. Smith, my spyglass!”
“Aye, sir,” Sarina replied, plucking it off his desk and nearly running to keep up with his long strides as he emerged on deck. She dodged between bustling crewmen, noticing that the new moon aided them on their errand by keeping the Arrow hidden in the darkness. Her eyes quickly grew accustomed to the lack of light, and she was able to navigate the deck relatively easily, still on Tremayne’s heels.
“I’ll stay at the wheel with Crawley,” he told Baines as he observed the activity of the crew. His head dipped low as he spoke quietly to his first mate. “We don’t want the sound to carry. I’ll relay my orders through Smith.
“We’ll wait in open water. But we’ll not mov
e on the Lady until it’s too late for her to turn tail and run.”
Baines turned to the east. “If the sun rises, we’ll lose the element of surprise.”
“Then we’ll make chase,” Jonathan replied. “The Lady hasn’t a chance of outrunning the Arrow. I doubt it will come to that, though.” He reached out to test some rigging, nodding in approval. “Renard won’t want to risk daylight, carrying all that booty on open water. The captain of the Lady may be more merchant than seaman, but he’s no idiot.
“No,” Tremayne mused. “He’ll come to us, and he won’t realize his mistake until it’s too late.”
“Is he carrying passengers?” Baines asked.
Tremayne nodded. “I expect so. Remind the men that innocents are not to be harmed.”
“Aye, sir.”
After that, a stillness overcame the crew as all eyes trained to the west, looking for any sign of the ship rounding the coastline. The soft lapping of the waves, gentle clacking of the rigging, and an occasional low murmur lulled Sarina into relaxation. Her lack of sleep and the current break in activity had her head nodding more than once, and she braced her feet apart, blinking widely to fight the urge to nap. The minutes seemed to tick along with every heartbeat, each man tensed in preparation for the fight ahead. Sarina watched them carefully, trying to maintain the same alertness. Slowly, the stars began to dim as the sky lightened, and the first mate cast a worried eye to the captain.
“Where is she?” he muttered lowly.
“Patience,” Tremayne replied.
“You said before dawn.”
“Patience,” the captain repeated. “Obviously, Renard is more confident, or more stupid, than I anticipated.”
Cutlass Page 2
