by Kruger, Mary
Rebecca pulled off her bonnet. “Amelia, do stop screeching. We’ve no time for it.”
“But, Becky, we’re going to die, or worse—”
“Stop it!” she snapped, and Amelia stared at her in surprise. If she allowed Amelia to fall into a panic, then she would, and nothing would be gained by that. “We’ll be safe.”
“Fear not, ladies.” Mr. Neville came out of his stateroom, thrusting an oilskin-wrapped packet inside his coat. Rebecca felt unreasonably disappointed. She had hoped he’d gone for a weapon. “I shall protect you.”
“Oh, Mr. Neville, you are so brave,” Amelia said, her eyes huge. “Do you think we’ll fight them off?”
“I would think so, dear lady.” He patted her hand. “Now let us go into our staterooms and do our best to protect ourselves.”
Rebecca stared at him. To protect himself, he meant. She had little confidence in Mr. Neville. His first concern was for himself. That meant that she and Amelia were alone.
What little courage she had left drained away, leaving her shaking. Oh, Father! she thought, almost in prayer. When he had sent them on their long voyage, he surely hadn’t envisioned them like this, in danger and with no one to protect them. If he had, however, he would expect her to do what she always had. He would expect her to take care of her sister.
The thought steadied her. She couldn’t go to pieces with Amelia relying on her. No matter what happened, she had to make certain her sister was safe. Papa would expect it of her.
The Curlew was in sight. Even the men on the deck of the Curlew could see her without the aid of a spyglass. Three miles ahead, two miles, now one. She was bending on sail, Brendan noted from his perch at the foretopsail yardarm, but she didn’t seem to be making much headway. That was as he’d planned it. He’d waited for just the right conditions of wind and waves, for calm seas and a wind to the quarter, or side, of the ship. For the Raven it was the most favorable wind direction, but the Curlew was full-rigged and did best with winds coming from dead aft. To make headway, she had to tack constantly, swinging back and forth in a zigzag line. It not only lost her precious time; it meant too many of the crew had to be involved in sailing the ship. Brendan smiled grimly. Good. His victory would be that much easier.
From the Curlew there was a flash, a puff of smoke, and then an echoing “boom”. The cannon ball flew through the air, splashing as it fell into the sea, far short of its mark. So. Battle was joined. “Hold your fire,” he called down to the deck. The carronades were accurate at close quarters, but not at this distance. No use wasting precious shot. His men were well-trained, gunners in the Royal Navy before deserting, and he intended to take full advantage of their skill.
Closer now, and closer, and he could see the Curlew’s crew scurrying about on her deck. Even from this distance they had the look of frightened men, and that was good. Frightened men made mistakes and defeated themselves. He wanted to get out of this encounter with as little bloodshed as possible.
The Curlew’s cannon boomed again, and again the ball fell short. But now it was time. The other ship was in range of their long guns. “Mr. Wright,” he bawled down, and a grizzled man wearing a red and white striped shirt and dirty white trousers looked up. “Prepare port guns to fire.”
“Aye, cap’n! Ready guns.”
“Mr. Goldrick.” This to another grizzled veteran, in the bow of the ship, standing near the long gun set on a pivot. “Fire when ready.”
“Aye, cap’n!” The gunner set flame to the cannon’s fuse. It fired with a roar that shook the ship and made Brendan grin fiercely as he slid down the line to the deck. A cheer went up from his crew, ragged but heartfelt, and he whipped around to see what had caused it. Their shot had taken down Curlew’s mainmast, effectively crippling her.
It was the first victory in an afternoon of victory. Commanding from the stern of the Raven, Brendan experienced it all with crystal clarity: heard the crashing of gunfire and the screams of men dying in agony; smelled the acrid odor of gunpowder, hanging like a pall over both ships; saw his own crew scurry into the rigging to take positions on the yardarms and rake their opponent with small-arms fire. Swiftly the Raven edged up to her quarry, her guns firing and her crew yelling in the fierce exultation of battle. The Curlew fought back, her crew raking the Raven with shot of their own as the two ships came abreast of each other. Some found their mark; near one of the Raven’s guns, a man fell, screaming, and one cannon ball flew clear through the mainsail, leaving a ragged hole. But they weren’t defeated. “Port tack,” Brendan yelled to his crew, and the Raven shifted, sheering away from the other ship, fast in spite of the ruined mainsail. The first action of the battle was theirs.
Again they came around, and again, and the Curlew fought desperately on, until, at last, Brendan saw what had been inevitable from the beginning. The Curlew struck her colors, taking down the Union Jack from her stern. Another cheer went up from the Raven, followed by a louder one when the white flag of surrender fluttered from the Curlew. Brendan grinned. They had won the day.
“The shooting has stopped,” Rebecca said, raising her head. She was crouched on the floor of her stateroom, Amelia, hands shielding her ears, held close to her. The roaring of the cannon had stopped, and the subsequent shaking of the ship, and yet Rebecca still shuddered as if the battle continued. “I think it’s over.”
Amelia raised her head. “Did we win?”
“I don’t know,” she said, just as someone pounded on the door. She stiffened, clutching Amelia closer. If someone tried to break in, there was no way she could stop them.
“Miss Talbot?” a voice said from outside.
Rebecca relaxed and rose, though Amelia clung to her, and opened the door to see Neville, his cravat askew and his hair standing on end. “Is it over?”
“It appears to be.” He patted his shoulder, as if to reassure himself that his packet was safe. “I don’t know if we won, but, fear not, dear lady. I’ll protect you and your sister.”
“Thank you,” Rebecca said, with absolutely no trace of irony as she stepped out into the saloon. If they had lost, who else could she depend on?
“Becky,” Amelia whimpered.
“Hush.” Rebecca briefly laid her cheek on Amelia’s hair, feeling far more like her mother than her sister. “‘Tis all right. It seems to be over.”
“Did we win?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Neville? Should we go on deck to find out what is going on?”
“We’ll know soon enough,” he said, making no move, and at that moment the door to the deck banged open. The noise made Rebecca cringe almost as much as Amelia did.
“You, down there.” It was the first mate, strained and dirty looking. “Are you safe?”
“Yes,” Rebecca called, and was ashamed of the way her voice wobbled. “Did we win?”
“Stay there,” he commanded, and moved off.
“Mercy.” That didn’t sound hopeful. “I wonder if we should go see what’s happening.”
“We’re safer here,” Neville said. The light revealed him crouching against the wall, his eyes glittering.
Rebecca glanced about the saloon. An eerie quiet pervaded everything, and broken glass from the skylight crunched underfoot. Here was a measure of safety, and yet the suspense of not knowing their future was unbearable. “I have to know,” she said, and stepped onto the first stair of the companionway.
“Becky!” Amelia threw herself at her. “Don’t leave me!”
“I’m not, Melia.” She pulled Amelia’s hands from about her waist. “I just want to see what’s happening.”
“B-but—”
“Stop whining! I’ll be but a moment,” she said, and began to climb, exasperated both with Amelia and herself. Her sister couldn’t help what she was; she’d been sheltered from life and had never had to face any of its harsh realities. Rebecca, however, hadn’t the luxury of giving into her fears.
She had reached the top of the companionway, and for the first time wondered
at the wisdom of what she was doing. It was eerily quiet above her, the mingled odors of blood and gunpowder making her the gorge rise in her throat. Dread curled in her stomach, and yet something stronger urged her on. Taking a deep breath, she eased her head out the door.
The harsh sunlight and the pall of smoke made her eyes water, so that it was a few moments before she could take everything in. The mainmast lay on deck, a tangle of rope and canvas and splintered wood. Sickeningly, a man’s leg protruded from under the wreckage. More men lay on pallets, some moaning, some too quiet. And the deck ran red. Rebecca swallowed, hard, and looked away, over the ship’s rail. There, just a few yards away, was the Raven.
Oh, she was a fearsome sight, black as the devil’s soul, sharp and sleek as glass. Men were in her prow, in her rigging, knives at the ready in their teeth, a sight made even more frightening by the absolute silence. Even the normal sounds of a ship at sea, the creak of rigging, the splash of waves, were muted. The Raven seemed almost a ghost ship as she drifted closer, except for her savage-looking crew. And him. Standing in the bow, one foot braced on the rail and looking not one bit ruffled, was Brendan Fitzpatrick.
Her breath caught in her throat. Fear, of course, for he looked devilish, and as black at heart as the bird of prey for which he was named. The light of battle glowed in his one good eye, and tension was lined in every part of his body. He looked ready to spring from one ship to the other at a moment’s notice, and as if he would soar while doing so. It could mean only one thing. The Curlew had lost the fight.
Abruptly she pulled back, scurrying down the companionway. “Into the stateroom, Amelia, and hurry!” she gasped, flying across the saloon to her sister. “We must find some way to protect ourselves. I think—oh!” Her voice broke off as a great, grating sound echoed through the ship, and a jolt made the floor tilt crazily. Rebecca flung her arm out to maintain her balance. “What in the world—we must have collided.”
“The Raven?” Neville said, crouching near the wall.
“Yes. I think—”
“Are we sinking?” Amelia asked.
“No. But we’ll be safer in the stateroom, if it comes to a fight.”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “But I thought it was over.”
“It is. In with you, Melia.” She hustled her sister into the stateroom and slammed the door behind them, looking around for something to bar the door. It was futile. All the furniture was bolted down. “It’s over, and we’re safe.”
“But the pirates—”
“Won’t hurt us.” She spoke with far more assurance than she felt. “The Raven knows who we are. He won’t dare harm us.” Amelia shivered, and so she rushed on. “At the worst, he’ll want to ransom us.”
“Do you mean he’ll take us prisoner?”
“No, of course not,” she said, soothingly, though that was exactly what she thought. “I imagine he wants the cargo.”
Hope crept into Amelia’s face. “Do you think so?”
“I most certainly do.” Rebecca hugged her, mentally praying for forgiveness for her lie. No matter what happened, no matter what it took, she would protect her sister, she thought, and repressed a shudder. Now was not the time to break down. Now, with her father’s admonitions ringing in her ears, with Amelia depending on her, was the time for her to be brave. Tightening her arm about Amelia, she raised her head and prepared to face the fury of the Raven.
The ships’ hulls groaned and complained as they grated together. Before they were completely still Brendan leaped across to the Curlew’s quarterdeck, making nothing of the green water below. From the Raven his men were throwing grappling hooks, securing the ships together. All was calm, orderly, and very tense. While Smithers’s face wore the white, sagging look of defeat, his crew still stood ready and armed. It would take little for them to erupt, Brendan thought. An accidental jostle, a word spoken in haste, and he’d have another battle on his hands. Fortunately his men were well trained; they swarmed over the side, calmly and quietly taking up their stations. One man went to the helm; others took up posts at the guns, silent now, while still others collected weapons. And still the tense, tight silence prevailed.
“Captain.” He spoke briskly as he approached Smithers. “My compliments on a fine fight.”
“It was one I could have done without,” Smithers rumbled. So there was a spark of fight left in the man yet.
“I’ll have your papers, and your bill of lading. And don’t be thinkin’ to foist a false one on me,” he said, at the look that appeared in Smithers’s eyes. “I’ve seen that trick before, boyo.”
“I am a man of honor, sir. I would not think of such a thing.”
“Good lad.” Not that it would matter if he had. The Curlew was Brendan’s now, aye, and all she held. “And your passengers?” he asked.
“For the love of God, man! They’re helpless women,” Smithers erupted.
“Ye’ve my word, they’ll not be harmed.”
“The word of a scoundrel.”
“Careful, boyo.” In a lightning quick move, the blade of his knife snicked out, poised at Smithers’s throat. “‘Twould be wise not to insult me.”
Smithers swallowed, but his gaze remained steady. “What do you plan to do with them?”
“Return them for ransom, of course. Sam.” He snapped his fingers, and Sam glided quietly to his side. “Find Mr. Neville and gather his belongings. I’ll see to the ladies myself.”
“I’ll come with you,” Smithers said stiffly.
“As you wish.” Brendan turned away. Below him, on the main deck, some order was being returned to the chaos. Those of the Curlew’s crew who were still able to stand had been gathered together in a small, ragged group, while his own men cleared away the debris from the fallen mainmast and helped those injured who lay beneath. “Who among you is American?” he called, and silence fell over the ship. “Speak up, now. I know some of you are.”
“Why do you want to know?” a voice came from below.
Brendan braced his hands on the quarterdeck railing. “You, boyo. Come here. From New England, are ye?”
The sailor who had spoken pushed his way forward, taking his time. He was tall and lanky, and his red hair spilled over his soot-smudged face in an untidy hank. “Ayuh. From down east. Maine.”
“What is a good New Englander like yourself doing on the enemy’s ship?”
“I was impressed.” The sailor stood at ease, hands tucked into trouser pockets, shoulders slouched back. A likely lad, showing courage at a time like this, Brendan thought, though he kept his face impassive. “Shipped out of Boothbay for Cathay, and we were stopped by a ship of the line.” He spat, and Brendan’s impression of him went up a notch. “Limeys pretended not to believe me when I said who I was.”
“So what are you doin’ here, boyo, when it’s home you could be? Or on one of your own country’s ships?”
“And be impressed again? And this time be flogged for deserting? Thought this would be safer.” The contemptuous way his eyes flicked towards Brendan showed what he thought of that course now. “Besides, no work at home. Jefferson’s dambargo closed all the ports.”
“Aye.” President Jefferson’s embargo, along with the various obstructions to trade since, was much hated in the seacoast states. “What is your name?”
“Tom Corby.”
“Well, Tom Corby, you’re free now. Stay if you wish, or join with me.”
“You?”
“Aye.” Brendan almost smiled at the scorn in the man’s voice. “At least I’m not British, boyo.”
“Ayuh. I’ll think on it.”
“Do that. Any other Americans here?” He surveyed the crew, but no others came forward. “Well, then. Any deserters from His Majesty’s Navy?”
“Not on my ship!” Smithers exclaimed, as several sailors stepped forward.
Brendan ignored him. “You’re free to go or stay, too, lads. The rest of ye’ll be brought back to the Indies. Mind yourselves and ye’ll not be hurt. Now.” H
e turned back to Smithers. “About your passengers.”
Smithers’s face had gone from the pallor of defeat to the purplish-red of outrage. “You are no gentleman, sirrah.”
“Aye.” Brendan’s teeth gleamed in a lazy smile. “But then, I never claimed to be. Your passengers, sir?”
Smithers glared at him a moment longer, and then his shoulders slumped. “They’re below. But let me come with you,” he added, as Brendan turned away. “They’re gentlewomen, easily frightened. If I’m with you they’ll feel safer.”
Brendan inclined his head and followed Smithers across the main deck to the hatch that led below. The younger Miss Talbot might scare easily, but the older didn’t strike him so. Still, Smithers had a point. With him there taking them would likely be easier. God spare him from hysterical females.
The saloon was dark. From one stateroom came Neville’s rusty voice, raised in protest. Brendan held back a smile. Sam would be implacable, gathering up all of Neville’s belongings, and that was what mattered. This other business, with the Talbot sisters, was trifling, a minor inconvenience.
“Miss Talbot.” Smithers was pounding on a door. “I must request that you and your sister come out.”
There was silence for a moment. “No.” It was Rebecca, sounding clear and unafraid. Brendan held back another smile.
“Miss Talbot, please.” Smithers cast a look back at Brendan, and wiped his forehead with his hand. “Captain Fitzpatrick has given his word you’ll not be harmed.”
“His word!”
“Aye, leannan.” Brendan stepped forward. “It may not be much, but ‘tis all I have.”
“Ha!”
“Miss Talbot, please,” Smithers said again. “I’m afraid there’s no choice.”
“There’s always a choice, captain. One can fight on, or one can give in.”
