Rescued by the Buccaneer

by Normandie Alleman

  Although shamed by her desire, Frederica had already determined that if the punishments she would suffer at the captain’s hands included such perverse pleasures, they might actually brighten her otherwise dour existence on this ship. At the same time, she suspected her thinking had become blurred by the loneliness of her imprisonment, and she began to wonder if she was losing her mind.

  Staring into the dark of night, she thought of her mother. She missed her the most at night, still remembering the sweet lavender scent that surrounded her when she bent to kiss her forehead and tuck her into bed each night. Homesickness clenched at her heart, and she let a tear slip down her cheek. Usually she squashed any self-pity that threatened to rise up, but tonight she felt particularly vulnerable and allowed herself the luxury of emotions.

  After she’d been captured by Captain Humphrey, her dreams for the future had diminished like a brilliant flame reduced to a flickering candle. Thinking back to her ill-fated voyage to the colonies, she wondered if she would ever see its fabled shores.

  She stifled a yawn. The black sky had turned to grey, and soon it would shift into the misty haze of morning. She trudged back to the tiny room that served as her cell and quietly opened the door, moonbeams spotlighting Humphrey’s round face. In that light he appeared almost kind, slumber softening his rough features, and she smiled to herself. With that silvery beard, he looked more like Father Christmas than the marauding devil that he was.

  She closed the door and lay down next to his slumbering frame on her pallet. Sleep overtook her the instant her head hit the hard ground.

  Chapter Four

  He opened his eyes, the sluicing of the ocean against his legs reminding the man where he was. He floated along in the ocean on a small raft he’d constructed from remnants of the rudder that had once belonged to his beloved ship, the Ocean’s Knave. The raft was large enough to keep him afloat but small enough that some parts of his body hung over into the water. He stretched his arms above his head and thought about how lucky he was not to be dead.

  The day before, he and his men had engaged in a sea battle in which the Ocean’s Knave had been damaged. During the skirmish he had been forced to jump in the water to avoid canon fire, and in the midst of a battle, his crew had been unable to rescue him. While he’d hoped the Ocean’s Knave would search for him, he knew it was unlikely to occur as her steering would be impaired after losing her rudder. Gregarious by nature, he despised being alone and came to the realization that for him, the lack of companionship was the worst part of his predicament.

  He’d grown accustomed to the ache in his belly, the hunger sending him into a strangely peaceful place. It was the wound in his arm that gnawed at him. During the battle that had separated him from his ship, the naval officer had sliced him up pretty good along the left bicep. The entry point still seeped blood, and while it might not have initially been a mortal strike, if the lesion started to fester, it could mean trouble.

  The only possessions he had with him were a bottle of rum, his weapons, a compass, a handful of tools, and the clothes on his back. Had the rum been plentiful, he’d have cleaned the wound with it. Instead he decided to drink it; thirst would do him in before blood poisoning had the chance.

  Gaston Galette wrapped his lips around the bottle of rum and felt them crack. He was tempted to lick them, but he knew better. Shaking the bottle, he concluded only two, maybe three slugs remained. Once that was gone, he’d be out of drink entirely and the unremitting, all-consuming thirst would set in. That’s when being surrounded by undrinkable water would become pure torture. He had endured that earthly hell before, and barring death by shark, he’d endure it again and soon.

  When the sun went down that night, the sea breeze blew over his skin, covering his forearms with gooseflesh. Nights on shark watch were always the longest, his heart alternating between racing and threatening to stop whenever his fear gripped him the tightest. His perpetually flexed muscles poised on the edge of his makeshift raft, his well-honed fight or flight instinct was controlled by an itchy hair trigger, ready to go off at any moment.

  In the morning when the demons slunk back to the deep, he collapsed from exhaustion. His body felt like it was made of rubber, his eyelids heavy as anvils. If he didn’t know he was close to the Jamaican isles, he’d have been more nervous, but he’d reviewed the charts two days prior. Years of navigation experience told him that he was drifting in some of the most well-traveled sea lanes in the Caribbean, and he was optimistic another ship would happen by.

  He prayed it would be the right ship and that they would find him before the sharks got him. The night before he’d shivered all night as the creatures with the dead eyes danced gracefully around him, their protruding fins shining in the moonlight.

  The sun’s rays had burned his flesh that first day, so he tried to cover the most singed areas with clothing to prevent blistering. No sense having more open sores to get infected. Gazing at the heavens, he observed there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, hence there would be no respite from the scorching ball of fire anytime soon. He settled on his stomach, covered his face, and dozed off.

  The sun was high in the sky when he awoke to a chorus of voices. He recognized the ballad; it was one his own crew often sang during periods of heavy labor.

  Rising to a seated position, he focused his attention on the ship, which ran about a hundred yards away from him. With a flourish he waved his hat wildly at the ship and called to them, “Ahoy!”

  Unfortunately, the crew’s singing drowned out his cries for help. In addition, they were moving at a much greater clip than his small raft. Frustrated, Gaston flopped back onto his belly and paddled with his arms. Churning the water, he contemplated the red flag that whipped in the wind atop the ship’s mast.

  It would have been easier if he’d run across a merchant ship, but what would be the challenge in that? And at this point, he had nothing to lose. If the pirates killed him it would be no different than perishing at sea, which had been a distinct possibility an hour ago, except his demise would be quicker, and that he preferred.

  He expected the crew and the ships’ captain would prove to be ruffians, tough customers like the ones he sailed with. He commanded such men on a daily basis. In fact, he liked his crew to be tough and merciless. Pirates gleaned more booty that way.

  He’d closed in to about fifty yards when the chorus ceased.

  “Ahoy!” Gaston yelled. When he got no response, he hollered again, and after some commotion aboard the ship, a few men responded to him.

  They’d heard him! Gaston kicked his feet and propelled his arms as fast as he could. No chance they’d turn the boat around for him, but if he swam alongside, they might toss him a rope.

  Grateful he was a strong swimmer, he used what strength he had left to bring himself port side of the sturdy vessel. Seeing her name, Neptune’s Damnation, emblazoned on her stern sent a shiver through him. Hating to acknowledge fear, he attributed the chill that overtook his body to the fact that he’d been in the water for days.

  “Ahoy there!” Gaston shouted to the men on deck. “Shipwrecked. Any chance you could throw me a line? I could use a warm meal, some water.”

  A young man wearing a navy cap shouted back, “Aye, mate. Cap’n wants to know your intentions.”

  “I don’t intend to rob you, if that’s his concern,” Gaston said cheerfully. “I’ll hand over my weapons, work hard as a horse for him.”

  The fellow disappeared for a minute, then returned. “All right. Cap’n says you can come aboard. But if you make one wrong move, he’ll slit your throat.”

  “I’d be disappointed to hear otherwise.” The corners of Gaston’s mouth lifted upwards and he reached to grab the thick rope they lowered down to him.

  Downing the last swig of rum he muttered, “Won’t be needing this,” and tossed the bottle into the ocean before beginning his ascent. By the time he’d climbed to the top, he was out of breath, the physical exertion sapping the last of his stren
gth.

  The man in the cap and a burly fellow hauled Gaston over the ship’s rail onto the deck. He landed with a thud and kissed the deck in a grand gesture. Sitting up, he arranged his soggy three-cornered hat atop his head. Its long, indigo plume had seen better days. He struggled to speak, gasping for air, but finally managed, “My gratitude, gentlemen.”

  “Happy to help, sir. I’m Bradford the bosun, and this is Tiny. ‘E’s a helmsman.”

  “Gaston Galette at your service,” he said, dragging himself to his feet.

  “What’s this I hear? We’ll be a-findin’ what the sea lost.” The booming voice preceded a broad, hard-looking man with a grizzled yellow beard.

  Gaston assumed by the look of the man and his commanding tone that he must be the captain, and so he extended his hand, which the captain ignored. “Aye, Captain. Lost me ship. Appreciate you saving me from the depths.”

  The captain eyed him suspiciously. “What happened to your ship?”

  “We had a run-in with some rabble-rousers, and their cannon took out our rudder. Nasty business. Barely escaped with me life. I fear the rest of the crew didn’t fare so well.”

  “You the captain?” the man grimaced.

  “Quartermaster,” Gaston lied. “Plenty of experience at sea, sir. Perhaps I can make myself useful for you.” He looked around. “Not that it looks like you need any help. Fine vessel, she is.” Flattery would only improve the chances he’d see another day.

  “Hmph. You’ll be earning your keep, fer sure, mate. Hand over your weapons.”

  Gaston removed his scabbard and politely relinquished his sword and pistol. He had no intention of giving up the knife hidden in his boot.

  “Better see to your wound first.” The captain snapped his thick, hammy fingers. “Freddie! Front and center,” he bellowed over his shoulder.

  The mention of the man’s name caused quite a commotion. A buzz filled the air, and men stopped swabbing the deck. It appeared work would cease as the entire crew awaited the arrival of this Freddie person.

  “Freddie will see to that,” the captain grumbled, pointing at Gaston’s oozing arm. “Report to me when it’s properly wrapped, and if I were you, I wouldn’t do anything unwise.” The captain brought his face right into Gaston’s, inches separating them. He glared at him and his voice rang of pure evil. “Heed me warning, or I’ll cut out yer gizzard, boy. Keep an eye on ‘im, Tiny.” The captain clapped the big man on the shoulder, turned, and marched below deck.

  Gaston was so occupied watching him go that he was startled to hear Bradford say, “Miss Frederica. Cap’n wants you to see to the new man. Pulled him out of the ocean, we did,” he said, his voice ringing with pride. “‘E’s got a nasty gash in ‘is arm.”

  Turning in their direction, Gaston found himself staring into a woman’s mesmerizing blue eyes. They were shocking, cold, and almost transparent—like ice. Pale pink ribbons entwined her waist-length chestnut locks, and she wore a frayed pink dress flocked with sun-bleached flowers. Numerous days at sea had freckled her smooth, creamy skin and had given a set to her jaw that spoke of something soft having hardened.

  A lump formed in his throat, and he gulped self-consciously. It was unlike him to allow the fairer sex to affect him, but this Freddie was, quite frankly, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Chapter Five

  At first Frederica was irritated to be called away from her mending, but upon hearing she was to tend to a wounded crew member, curiosity boosted her spirits.

  Bradford led her to the patient, a man who flopped about on deck like a fish pulled from the water. His hat drooped, dripping sea water, and she held back a smirk when he removed his soggy gold brocade jacket—which was similar to Humphrey’s purple waistcoat—and wrung it out. Similar to Humphrey’s purple waistcoat, the fancy jacket was the sort of extravagant apparel worn by men who commanded pirate ships.

  “Over the side, eh, mate?” Tiny took the man’s clothes and finished squeezing out the water over the ship’s railing. It was odd to see such an ox of a man tend to another man’s laundry.

  “‘E’s got a bad gash in ‘is arm, milady. Cap’n thought you could see to it,” Bradford said.

  Frederica nodded, staring into the one brown eye that belonged to the new passenger; the other was covered by a black patch. Gazing at her through his good eye, the man seemed to see straight through her, and a shiver danced down her spine.

  As he removed his shirt, she couldn’t help but notice his burnished skin rippled with muscles. His biceps bulged, and the planes of his stomach appeared to be carved with a knife. Long matted hair formed thin locks that fell past his shoulders, making him appear wild, yet with a hint of civility and charm. And rather handsome for a drowned bilge rat.

  The man bowed dramatically at the waist. “Mademoiselle, I am Gaston Galette. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She nodded curtly. “You are French?”

  “Oui, oui. Do you speak French?” he asked.

  She shook her head no.

  “A pity. The French language is exquisite—not unlike yourself.” He lifted an eyebrow flirtatiously.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I see. My name is Frederica Beauchamp. My ancestors did speak French, but alas, I am only an Englishwoman. Is that the injury of which they speak?” She pointed at the red gash.

  “Aye.”

  “Let us find something to clean it with.” She nodded to Bradford.

  Bradford escorted them to a small room below deck and brought a number of supplies, including turpentine, soapy water, rags, and bandages. He also gave Gaston a cup of grog to drink before excusing himself.

  Gaston perched on a barrel against the wall. Frederica knelt beside him, dipping a rag into the bucket of soapy water.

  “The sea water is a blessing and a curse. The brine cleanses the wound, but the water can introduce infection as well.” She laid her hand on his knee, causing him to jump.

  She giggled. “Calm yourself. I haven’t done anything yet.” Then she poured a cupful of the turpentine into the cut. He winced as the antiseptic permeated the broken skin.

  “You know what you’re doing?” he asked, his voice strained.

  “My father was a physician. I picked up a few things.”

  “Now what is a physician’s daughter doing sailing the ocean with this motley crew of scallywags?” His dark eye twinkled.

  “Long story,” she said, wiping the wound with the rag.

  He leaned back and set his feet up on another barrel. “I’ve got nothing but time, Princess.”

  Ignoring him, she asked, “What happened to your eye?”

  “Wood splinter. Canon fire can be a nasty business. Here,” he said reaching for the rag. “I’d like to cleanse it.” He lifted the patch away from his eye, at the same time shielding Frederica from seeing the site of the eye injury and dabbed at it, squeezing the rag until soapy water dripped down and dribbled off his well-trimmed beard.

  “I’m supposed to do that,” she said.

  He smiled and handed her back the rag. “You may finish up, my dear.”

  “What makes you think you can call me that?” She pushed back, hands settling on her hips.

  He sighed as if he found her tiresome. “I just did, didn’t I?”

  She folded her arms and gave him a dirty look. “I’m not your dear,” she said through gritted teeth. “You may call me Frederica or Miss Beauchamp.”

  “I see. And how did you come to join a pirate crew, Frederica?”

  She softened. “I’m not a member of the crew. I am their prisoner, taken on my way to the colonies.”

  “Taken? So that’s how you wound up with this scurrilous crew.”

  “I was aboard the passenger ship, the Adelaide, when Captain Humphrey and his men attacked us.” The corners of her mouth fell.

  “What happened?”

  “They stole everything of value, then killed everyone.” She shrugged at the senseless loss of life and dropped h
er eyes to the floor.

  “How did you escape?”

  “Captain Humphrey took me as his prisoner. I think Bradford gave him the idea. He saved my life, Bradford that is. I was struck in the head and collapsed in his arms. I don’t think he had it in him to kill me. So he convinced Humphrey I’d be useful. I don’t remember anything after I got hit in the head.”

  “And since?” he asked.

  “I’m a slave to Humphrey. I do his bidding. He keeps me locked in his chambers. Says it’s for my protection…” her voice trailed off.

  Gaston took a sip of rum. “So now you’re Humphrey’s whore?”

  “I most certainly am not!” she exclaimed indignantly.

  “Let me see if I understand this correctly… You sleep in the captain’s bunk, you care for him, he offers you protection from the rest of the crew, what else would you call it?” He rocked his head back, amused.

  “I do not lie with him.”

  “You don’t?” He winked at her. “Be honest. A comely wench like yourself… The man would have to have a defect not to be bedding you.”

  “I cannot speak to that, but I can assure you that I sleep on a pallet on the floor, and the captain sleeps in his bed. I am nothing more than a slave and companion to him.” For some reason Galette made her defensive, and what she told him was true… for the most part.

  “If you say so.” Gaston leaned forward, brows knitted together. “What about when you first came aboard… did he get close to you? Rub up against you?”

  “Monsieur Galette!” She pretended to be slightly more outraged than she really felt, though she wasn’t sure why it was important to her what this pirate thought of her.

  “Did he?” he persisted.

  Taking a deep breath, Frederica considered. Rolling her eyes, she answered, “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure how that is any business of yours,” she answered petulantly.