by Kruger, Mary
“You’re so brave, Becky.” Amelia sniffled, digging into her reticule for a handkerchief. “I could never be as brave as you.”
Brave? Hardly, but for Amelia’s sake she would pretend to be. Daddy! The silent cry came from her heart. Holding onto her sister, as much for her own solace as for Amelia’s, she watched as the small boat headed towards shore. Her father was leaving her. Never in her life had she felt so alone.
With a fair wind and a following sea, the Curlew sped towards England. Rebecca marked each day in her journal, uncomfortably aware that with each mile she came closer to her dreaded destination. With each mile, she was farther and farther from home. She missed her father and her familiar surroundings with an ache that never left, missed the house she had grown up in, the people she knew, the peaceful cemetery on the heights above Georgetown, where she had often spent sunny Sunday afternoons. All behind her now, and what lay ahead did not bear thinking of.
Not that she had much time for thinking. Once their ship left the harbor and encountered the northeast trade winds, Amelia took to her bunk, her face sickly green and her spirits low. Even Rebecca’s stomach rebelled as the ship bucked the waves caused by the head winds, but she fought against it. Caring for her sister was something she had always done. She would continue to do so, now.
They were a week out of St. Thomas when Amelia came out on deck, pale and shaky but otherwise, to Rebecca’s relief, fine. Even after a week of illness, Amelia looked charming, in a high-waisted day dress of white dimity that draped demurely over her slender figure. Over that she wore a spencer in a shade of blue that rivaled the sky, and her high-crowned chip straw bonnet was trimmed with flowers to match. Next to her, still in her good gray twill gown, cut full to conceal, rather than reveal, Rebecca felt dowdy and just a little resentful. There had been a time when she had dressed stylishly, too. “How good it is to breathe fresh air,” Amelia said, sinking onto a bench. Rebecca joined her. With the stern cabin housing behind them, they were sheltered from the wind. “Goodness, look at that man, Becky!” Amelia pointed to the top of a mast. “What is he doing up there?”
Rebecca shaded her eyes against the brightness as she looked up, and involuntarily shuddered at the height. “He is the lookout. You wouldn’t know, since you were ill, but we have sighted several ships. All quite friendly, by the by.”
“Of course. We are on a British ship. ‘Tis why Papa put us aboard, instead of one of his own.”
“One of the reasons. Or have you forgotten that we are not supposed to trade with Britain?”
“Oh, pooh, that is boring talk! I will not let you go on about it on such a fine day.” Amelia stretched out her legs and regarded her feet, daintily shod in the latest style, soft black slippers with criss-cross ties. “I do miss Papa.”
“So do I,” Rebecca said, after a moment.
“But, oh, we shall be so happy together in England. I promise you so.”
Rebecca’s smile was forced. Of course she would never have allowed Amelia to travel alone, but must she really be banished so far away? Surely her crime hadn’t been that terrible. Surely she had paid enough, over the last seven years.
“Ladies.” Mr. Neville ambled over to them. “A pleasure to see you up and about, Miss Amelia.”
Amelia dimpled up at him. “Thank you, sir. It is good to feel better, at last. There were times I thought I would die.”
“Seasickness can be distressing,” he agreed, quite as if he hadn’t spent the first days of the voyage in his stateroom. “It is a shame you had to miss so much.”
“Why?” Amelia’s eyes sparkled. “Have we met with pirates, sir?”
“Amelia,” Rebecca reproved.
“Well, I would still like to know what Captain Fitzpatrick meant, telling you to watch out for pirates.”
Uncharacteristically, Rebecca flushed. She had her own ideas as to what that meant, and they had more to do with a flashing smile and a lilting brogue than being captured at sea. Dangerous, either way. “He was funning us, Amelia.”
“I hope so.” Neville frowned, looking rather like a black-visaged bird in his dark, rusty clothes. A crow rather than a raven, Rebecca thought suddenly, and just as quickly tamped the thought down. Much too fanciful. If she’d once had the soul for poetry, it was long gone. “May I join you ladies?”
“Oh, please do!” Amelia shifted on the bench to make room for him. He sat, his thigh pressing much too close to Rebecca’s. She edged away.
“I doubt not that he was bluffing,” Neville went on. “We are not the type of prize to attract such as he. After all, we carry no coin or bullion, just simple merchandise. May I say you’re looking especially lovely this morning, Miss Amelia. And you, too, Miss Talbot,” he added, as if in afterthought. Rebecca noticed, however, that his gaze had strayed to her bosom, and she edged away again. She didn’t like Mr. Neville. He hadn’t actually made any advances towards her, but the way he looked at her and his tone of voice were advance enough. Mercy, why he’d chosen her as an object of flirtation and not Amelia, she couldn’t imagine.
Amelia dimpled. “Thank you, sir. Though I am persuaded I must look ghastly after having the mal de mêr.”
“Not at all. You could never be less than beautiful.”
High time the topic was turned, Rebecca thought. “Do you know of the Raven?” she asked, briskly, and then bit her tongue. Now why had she said that?
“But, dear lady, who does not know of him? He is a legend. Infamous, of course, but there it is. Why, in these civilized days, who would expect pirates to roam the seas?”
Amelia leaned forward again. “What has he done, sir? Please, tell us.”
Neville’s lips pursed. “I’m not sure ‘tis a story fit for ladies’ ears, but—oh, very well. No one knows where he came from, you know. There’s a tale that he is from an aristocratic family in England, but I don’t credit that. He suddenly appeared one day in his black ship and attacked a helpless British trader. Took her and all her cargo as a prize. None knows where he went after that.” His gaze was distant. “He disappears for long periods of time, reappears only when he needs more money. Some say he has his own island in the Indies, where he hides when he is not marauding.”
“Then why was he on St. Thomas, sir?” Rebecca said, tartly.
“The man likes to court danger, I believe. He once took on a British warship.”
“No!”
“Yes, and took off men for his own crew. Some say they saw him at the top of the mast,” his gaze went up, to the topmast, high above, “and he was laughing. Laughing at the mightiest navy on earth!”
Rebecca felt the oddest urge to cheer. “A most dangerous man,” she said, primly adjusting the folds of her skirt. “I am glad we shan’t be encountering him again.”
“Yes.” He leaned forward, his face scant inches from Rebecca’s. “He is utterly ruthless, and he will not let anything stand in his way. Or anyone.”
Rebecca pulled back. “Has he killed, then?” she said, surprised at how detached she sounded.
“I fear so, dear lady. But that isn’t the worst. He has been known to employ torture on his captives.”
“Torture! But why?”
Neville’s eyes gleamed. “To get them to give up their valuables, of course. But I also fear that he enjoys it.”
“Mercy,” Rebecca said, faintly. It couldn’t be true. It didn’t sound like the man she had met so briefly. Dangerous he might be, but cruel? She couldn’t credit it.
“He shows none. And he is no gentleman. I hear that on the last ship he took, there were ladies aboard.”
Amelia leaned forward. “What happened to them, sir?”
“No one knows.” Silence lay heavy between them. “He took them aboard his devil-curst ship, and they’ve not been heard of since.”
Somewhere a bell sounded, and Rebecca counted the strokes with relief. Eight. That meant it was noon, and time for luncheon. Odd, the way hours were kept on ship. “Well.” She rose, shaking out her skirts. �
��I believe that’s enough pirate stories for one day. There’s the bell for luncheon. Shall we go below?” she said, and at that moment a cry floated down from the top of the mainmast.
“Sail ho!”
“Where away?” Captain Smithers’s voice boomed out from the quarterdeck.
“Three points off starboard quarter, Cap’n, and comin’ fast.”
Smithers raised his spyglass and put it to his eye. “A dispatch boat, most like,” he muttered, but he was frowning when he lowered the glass.
“Oh, Becky, another ship!” Amelia exclaimed, catching Rebecca’s arm and drawing her over to the rail. “How exciting! Do you suppose we’ll have company?”
“Some naval officers for you to flirt with, Melia?” Rebecca said, but she smiled. Amelia was still very young. Let her have her pleasures while she could.
“Oh, look!” Amelia pointed as they crested a wave. Momentarily, far behind them, they saw the flash of a white sail. Then it was lost, as they went into a trough. “Oh, bother, it’s too far away. He’ll never catch up.”
“Gaining on us, Cap’n!” the lookout called.
Rebecca turned to look at the quarterdeck. Smithers hadn’t answered, but still stood, glass to eye, watching the other sail. His face was grim. In spite of the day’s warmth, Rebecca felt a sudden chill. “Amelia, luncheon is waiting—”
“Ladies,” Neville said behind them. “Can you see the other ship?”
“Oh, Mr. Neville, ‘tis ever so exciting!” Amelia turned shining eyes on him. “Almost like being in a race.”
Rebecca shifted away from the hand Mr. Neville placed on her shoulder. “I wonder who it is.”
“No one you need to fear, ma’am.” Mr. Neville smiled, showing yellowed teeth with spaces between. Irrelevantly Rebecca remembered another man, and a laugh that displayed strong, even teeth, on a sunny St. Thomas street. As before, she banished the image. “We are on a British ship. No one would dare to attack us,” he went on. “Had we been foolish enough to travel on an American ship, we might be exposed to the unpleasantness of being boarded.”
Rebecca looked up at him. “Do you not feel it is wrong, that England feels free to stop American ships and board them?”
“Of course not. England’s navy is only after those sailors that have deserted.”
“But many of the men they impress are American, sir.”
“So they say.”
“And you are American, as well. I wonder that you feel this way.”
“I have no quarrel with England. No right-thinking person should.” He smiled at her again. “But, there, I don’t expect you to understand. You should leave these matters to men. We are more suited to understand them.”
“Mr. Neville, if you think—”
“Can you make him out?” Smithers’s voice boomed out as he called to the lookout, cutting off the rest of Rebecca’s reply.
“Aye, Cap’n,” the lookout called back. “Looks to be a brigantine, flying the Union Jack.”
“There, ladies, see?” Mr. Neville nodded. “We are quite safe.”
“I never doubted we were, sir,” Rebecca said tartly, her gaze straying back to the captain. If their pursuer were indeed a friend, why did he still look so grim? Again that chill of unease swept down her spine. “Amelia, I believe we should go down to luncheon—”
“Good Christ!” Smithers exclaimed at the same time. “Mr. Parker!”
Mr. Parker, the first mate, who was supervising the crew, sprang forward. “Aye, Cap’n?”
“Call all hands, and be quick!”
“Aye, Cap’n! All hands on deck! All hands on deck!”
“What is it?” Amelia asked, looking up at Mr. Neville as if he could provide an answer.
“What is it, Cap’n?” Mr. Parker called.
“Trouble,” Smithers said. “Get the guns out, and be quick. And get those landlubbers below! We’ve no time to spare for them.”
“I’ll take care of this.” Mr. Neville took the two girls’ arms, steering them towards the companionway that led below. “Is someone chasing us, captain?”
“Aye.” Smithers lowered his spyglass and folded it with a short, sharp motion. “You might as well know the worst. I believe it to be the Raven.”
Chapter Three
The Raven dipped into a trough, and for a moment all Brendan could see was the deep, green sea and the sky above. But then the ship crested the swell, and his quarry was again in sight. Standing far above the deck on the foretopsail yardarm, one arm wrapped around the mast for support, Brendan grinned fiercely. Through his spyglass he could see the white flutter of sails that he knew to be the Curlew. He’d been tracking her for days, careful always to stay out of sight. Now, a week out of St. Thomas and with no other ships near, it was time to strike. Within a matter of hours, the Curlew and all she held would be his.
His smile dimmed for just a moment. No, he would not think of eyes as green and deep as a sunlit sea, or a smile that had so unexpectedly charmed him. That Rebecca Talbot was a passenger on the Curlew was an accident of fate. He had a mission to perform. Best he concentrate on that.
“Five degrees starb’d,” he called down to the man at the helm, and felt his ship respond to the turn of the wheel, rolling to port as her course was changed. She was a fine ship, a sweet ship, his Raven, and if anyone had told him when he was a boy he’d someday be skippering her, he’d have thought they were insane. Not when he’d seemed destined to live his life on a small, rocky tenant farm, struggling to eke out a meager existence. Not when he’d envied his distant cousins their wealth and ease, not when he’d gone to market in Bristol and seen the ships on the Avon, their utilitarian beauty making his heart ache. Aye, he’d never even let himself dream of something like the Raven, not until his life had changed so drastically and completely.
The grin faded again, and his lips tightened in the grim line that was familiar to many an English captain. Leaning perilously far out, he caught hold of a line and rode it, sliding down to the deck. He met the ship’s movements easily, legs spread, arms akimbo, and gazed up at the sails, gauging his ship’s speed. Aye, they’d got the wind now. Soon enough, they’d catch the Curlew.
A giant of a man came into his vision, arms crossed at his chest, and at his inquiring look Brendan nodded. “Ahead and to port. Three, four hours at the most, Sam. Crew all ready?”
Sam nodded. Brendan stood at ease, comfortable with the silence. Most had thought him daft when he’d signed Sam up as first mate, a mute, and black at that. After all, one of the mate’s jobs was to repeat the captain’s orders to the crew. Sam had his own way of communicating, however, with clicks and whistles and gestures, and the crew not only caught onto his meaning, they also quickly learned to obey. Besides being a decent navigator and a superb seaman, he was more than capable of running the Raven if for some reason Brendan couldn’t. He’d trust Sam with his life, aye, that he would. But not with the truth. That he told to no man.
“Call all hands,” he said, tersely, and Sam let out a sharp whistle, making a chopping motion with his hands at another man. The command was hollered and repeated, and the sounds of feet pounding on decks and companionways echoed throughout the ship. Men came from the rigging, from the deck, from crew’s quarters, alert and ready for action. They crowded the deck, fully one hundred of them, enough to man this ship and yet another, enough to fight. They were trained, seasoned, and they knew what was expected of them. As Brendan talked he saw heads nodding, eyes gleaming in anticipation, and knew that he would win the upcoming battle. He had a sweet ship, a fine crew, and his own skills. He needed nothing more.
Within moments the Raven was stripped and readied for action: all hatch covers battened down; the eight nine-pound carronades run out, along with the six long guns, and put in place with the men to arm them; the foc’s’le cleared for use as a surgery. Pistols were primed, knives placed to hand in belts, and, here and there, the occasional saber clanked. The Raven was going to battle, and she intended to win
.
It was chaos. Utter chaos, and Rebecca had never seen the like in her life. Within a moment of Captain Smithers’s announcement a ripple of panic had spread through the Curlew, and grown. It showed in the crew’s faces, in their voices, in their words. The Raven! It was a name from nightmares. Remembering Mr. Neville’s stories, which a moment ago had seemed like fairy tales, Rebecca felt the same panic welling within her. Dear heavens. If the Raven captured this ship, what would become of her sister and her?
She had barely a moment to contemplate that before a sailor grabbed her arm and hauled her and Amelia towards the stern cabin. “Wait,” Rebecca protested, twisting her head around, seeking Captain Smithers and some measure of reassurance. “I want to—”
“Get below,” the sailor snapped, shoving her towards the door. “You, too.” That, to Mr. Neville, who was staring in the direction where the Raven had been sighted, a look of horrified fascination on his face. “You’re in the way.”
“Oh, Becky!” Amelia wailed. “We shall all be killed!”
“Nonsense,” Rebecca replied, the need to protect Amelia asserting itself over her fear. “Captain Smithers won’t let him get us.” Would he? Her last glimpse of the deck, as she stumbled down the companionway to the passengers’ quarters, hampered by her long skirts, showed the men scurrying to and fro, climbing into the rigging, bringing out the big cannons in preparation for a fight. In that brief glimpse she saw fear and grim determination on the faces of the crew. Heart sinking, she remembered again the times she had met Brendan Fitzpatrick. She remembered again seeing him in action on a narrow dusty street near a tavern, and she could at last believe all that had been said of him.
The door to the stern cabin banged shut, a terribly final sound. Amelia wailed again, and in the gloom Mr. Neville struck a lucifer match, though light filtered down from the skylight above. They were in the saloon, which served as dining room and parlor for the captain and his passengers, and now seemed like a trap. “I say. They could at least let me join the fight,” he said, without conviction.
