Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  As soon as the sergeant ushered the sorry-looking bundle of rags through the doorway, the lieutenant’s gray eyes widened and his nose wrinkled in protest at the indescribably foul odor that accompanied the prisoner into his cabin.

  “Good God. Could you not have thrown a bucket of water over him before bringing him here?”

  “I did, sir,” Rowntree assured him, his own nose twisted in distaste. “But it comes with the accommodations. Sort of grows on them, if you know what I mean.”

  Ballantine stared at the boy and debated the wisdom of his impulse.

  “See if you can located Dr. Rutger for me. The boy has some stitches that may require attention.”

  “Aye, sir. Anything else?”

  The lieutenant hesitated, wondering if it was his memory playing tricks on him, or if the boy had actually shrunk inside the folds of filthy clothing. His face was gray from lack of fresh air; the downcast eyes seemed sunken in hollows the color of old bruises.

  “When was the last time the prisoner ate?”

  “Damned if I know, sir. According to MacDonald, he throws most of what he is given right back in their faces.”

  “He does, does he?” Adrian lowered his hands to the desktop and drummed his fingers lightly on the wood. “Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all for now.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  When the door was shut again, Ballantine sorted through a sheaf of papers on his desk and stacked them neatly in the corner. He could feel the wary eyes of the prisoner on him, following his every move, and Ballantine had to resist the urge to smile.

  Courtney only noted the grimness of his expression and the power that rippled through the muscles of his shoulders and arms as he moved. She was bewildered by the unexpected summons, uncertain of what this arrogant, self-righteous officer might want of her. Forced to the back of her mind was the terror of her confinement in the small iron cage, and the very real dread of being sent back down to it again.

  She had always loathed tight, confined spaces, and the cage had been one of the toughest tests of her will and endurance. She had repeatedly fought the urge to scream, to weep hysterically, to tear at the planks and bars and beg her captors to give her a single dry blanket, a single small light, a single deep breath of fresh salt air. But she had done none of those things. She had spent the time crouched in silence and darkness; and while her cheeks had often been damp at times, she had no recollection of feeling any emotion other than hatred.

  She felt it now, stifling her ability to hear and think clearly. Her eyes burned from the brightness in the cabin; her muscles were cramping from the sudden ability to stand straight. Her skin was clogged with dirt and sweat and drying salt water, and bore welts and raw patches from the manacles and the rigid bars. She had lost the blue bandana, and her hair hung about her shoulders in a greasy snarl; her clothes were black with mildew and stank of dampness.

  “Well, boy, what have you learned over the course of the past six days and nights besides how to waste good food and stink up my cabin?”

  Courtney stared at him. Hard. Six days! She had lost all track of time in the airless semi-darkness.

  “How to reply smartly to a direct question, I see,” the lieutenant mused. “Perhaps you need another week in solitude to loosen your tongue.”

  To Courtney’s chagrin, a gasp escaped her lips. “No. No, I—”

  She bit down on the inside of her lip, but the smug smile was already curving his mouth.

  “You what?”

  “I do not give a damn what you do, Yankee,” she spat defiantly. “But to answer your question: The food was crawling with maggots and if I stink, you have only your own hospitality to thank for it.”

  Ballantine leaned back in the chair. “You are accustomed to better living conditions, are you?”

  “I am accustomed to living like a human being, not caged like an animal.”

  “You sound semi-literate, boy,” the lieutenant observed after a lengthy pause. “Does that mean you were not always in the company of pirates?”

  “I fail to see why my choice of company should interest you.”

  “It does not,” he said crisply. “I merely find the notion entertaining that Duncan Farrow might have intended his son for better things.”

  The emerald eyes narrowed. “A pity your father did not have a similar ambitions.”

  Ballantine regarded her with mild amusement. A week in the cage would have demoralized a man twice the age of this urchin, not fired his spirit.

  He smiled briefly. “You seem bent on testing my patience, boy. Have you that much contempt for the value of your life?”

  Courtney did not answer. Her hands curled into fists around the heavy link of the iron chain, and she glared at him with as much loathing as she could muster. It did not have the effect she intended, for he merely looked into the snapping fury of her eyes and his smile developed into quiet laughter.

  “All right, boy, you have proven how fierce you can be. I am duly impressed. And against my better judgment, I am even prepared to offer you a way to help yourself.”

  “Help myself?” she asked suspiciously, still bristling from his laughter.

  He laid his hands flat on the desk. “A hot meal, a long hot bath, and perhaps even a chance to earn a parole in the galley.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “A little information.”

  Courtney stiffened. “Go to hell.”

  “Your father was attempting to run through the blockade line outside of Tripoli, was he not?”

  Courtney tightened her grip on the chain and said nothing.

  “How did he know where and when to cut through the line?”

  She looked away disdainfully.

  “What was his cargo? Was he planning to return directly to Snake Island?” Again the long fingers drummed noiselessly on the desktop. “I have the duty watch in two hours, boy. I would like the answers before then.”

  “You will get nothing from me, Yankee,” she snarled.

  Ballantine drew a deep, patient breath. “You and your uncle were not taken along on this raid. Why was that?”

  “You are the smart one. You tell me.”

  “I would rather you tell me,” he said silkily, and Courtney found herself staring into the wintry gray eyes.

  “Verart had a wound in his leg,” she said shortly. “It had not healed properly.”

  “Ships sail with wounded men.”

  She barely missed a beat. “They also sail with peacocks at the helm.”

  “And you?” Ballantine asked easily. “Why were you left behind? A man like Farrow—” he paused and shrugged— “one would think he would be proud to have his son fighting by his side.”

  Courtney felt the blood rush warmly to her cheeks. The deliberate insinuation that Duncan Farrow did not think his son worthy to fight at his side begged for a retort, but Courtney refused to rise to the bait. Son or daughter, she could fight as well as any man, could wield a cutlass or a musket with as much confidence and skill. Years of living among the hardened corsairs had taught her much—including unquestioning acceptance of orders as they were given by her father. He had ordered her and Verart to remain on Snake Island, for reasons the Yankee would never learn from her.

  Ballantine stood and walked over to the nightstand. Courtney tensed as she heard the soft trickle of water being poured from a pitcher into a tin mug.

  “Are you thirsty?” He asked, half-turning. “Or hungry?”

  She watched the icy clear water tip out of the jug and she ran her tongue across her parched, cracked lips. “No.”

  He smiled and extended the cup. “Here, boy. Drink it. You are not breaking any rules by doing so.”

  The cabin swayed giddily beneath her feet for a moment and to Courtney’s mortification she began to tremble. She squeezed her eyes shut against the temptation, but when she opened them again, it was still there. The lieutenant had moved closer. He had detected a weakness and would use it to soften her, to befri
end her and then ply her with questions.

  “I want nothing from you,” she rasped, her mouth so dry her tongue seemed to scratch against its roof as she spoke. “I only want to be treated like the other prisoners.”

  “But you are not like any of the other prisoners,” he said pointedly. “You are the son of Duncan Farrow and you would be quite a feather in the captain’s cap were he to discover you were on board.”

  “Then why have you not told him?” she whispered, trying not to imagine the taste or feel of the water he still held out to her.

  “I have not told him because he would be just as apt to hang you from the nearest yardarm as deliver you to the authorities for trial.”

  “And that idea troubles you?” she snorted, mockingly.

  "Not in the least." He smiled and sat on the corner of the desk. “Certainly not as much as it would trouble you.”

  “I would look on it simply as another demonstration of Yankee justice.”

  The bitterness in her voice scraped a nerve along Ballantine’s spine. “Your people have earned whatever form of justice they get. Piracy, extortion, white slavery, murder—those are hardly acts deserving leniency.”

  “My father is not a murderer,” was the taut response. “Nor does he deal in slavery. As to the charge of extortion, he has never once demanded a ransom for any of your captured countrymen.”

  “What about the French and the Spanish?”

  She scowled. “He treats them as they treat us. A lesson I can only hope you learn in the near future.”

  Ballantine took a long sip of water then set the tin mug on the desk, noting as he did so that the boy nearly swayed forward as he followed the motion. “I notice you have not denied the charge of piracy—of attacking shipping lanes and taking vessels by force. Or perhaps you have a means of justifying that as well?”

  “You Yankees have already found a means,” she said with a slight smirk. “I believe you call it privateering.”

  “You have your definitions a little twisted, boy.”

  “Do I? Your merchantmen are armed. They open fire on French and Spanish ships, do they not? They waylay cargoes of spices and sugar from the West Indies, and they transport shiploads of Africans to sell as slaves to work on your fat cotton plantations. Tell me, Yankee, how do you define those honorable practices if not as piracy and slavery?”

  She had the satisfaction of seeing a warm flush spread upward into the lieutenant’s face.

  “You have your father’s nerve, boy,” he murmured, “I will say that much for you. And frankly, I have about reached the end of my good humor. I want answers and I want them now, or so help me Christ, you will come to think of the cage as a holiday.”

  “You do not frighten me,” she spat, squaring her shoulders. “And you are wasting your breath if you think a few threats will make me cower before you.”

  Ballantine’s eyes were cold and hard as he crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “We already know quite a lot about your father’s...business. We know Duncan Farrow was in the employ of Yusef Karamanli, the Pasha of Tripoli. We also know he had dealings with Rais Mahomet Rout, the Dey of Algiers—an odd combination of associates when you consider the two despots are sworn enemies.”

  “Are they?” Courtney asked mildly. “I would not know.”

  “And I suppose you would not know what your father was bringing through the blockade that was important enough to deserve the cooperation of both Arabs?”

  “My father’s business is his own.”

  “I am making it mine.”

  “Then I wish you luck,” she countered evenly. “You will have a great need for it.”

  Adrian contemplated the hard set to the boy’s jaw, the deadly earnest green eyes, as well as the unspoken challenge. Always challenge, never defeat.

  “Duncan Farrow’s ships are destroyed, boy. His stronghold is in ruins, his life forfeit. The games are over. There is nothing left but your own fate to bargain for, and nothing standing between you and survival but your own foolish notions of sacrifice. As I recall, your uncle’s last instructions to you were to live, at any cost. I imagine Duncan Farrow’s last wish would have been the same. If you will not do it to help yourself, you should at least consider doing it for them.”

  It was a cruel blow, given with cold dispassion, and Ballantine disliked himself for having to resort to such methods. But the boy had to accept the fact that he was alone now, that he would find no sympathy anywhere else on this ship. In somewhat less than three days, he would be set ashore in Gibraltar bound either for a hanging, or for a long prison sentence—unless he did something to help himself.

  “Well?”

  “My father is not dead,” Courtney whispered hoarsely. “I refuse to believe it.”

  Ballantine was transfixed by the glowing eyes. The centers had expanded until only a thin rim of green remained.

  “Your father and Garrett Shaw are both dead,” he repeated, his voice like ice.

  “No!”

  “The Wild Goose has been destroyed, so has the Falconer. Karamanli sold them both out. Someone did, because the word was leaked through to our patrol ships telling them where and when to intercept.”

  Courtney shook her head. “No. You are lying.”

  “Am I? Then how did we know about Snake Island? How did we know the strength of your uncle’s defences? The number of men he would have by his side to protect it? Your father was sold to us, boy; and if not by Karamanli, then it had to be one of his own men.”

  Courtney reacted with instincts of a trapped animal. A blurred movement of her hand beneath the waist of her shirt produced the gleaming knife she had taken from the surgery the first day. She thrust it out in front of her, gripped tightly in bruised and swollen fingers.

  Ballantine’s astonishment was genuine, and it slowed his reactions. He saw the glitter of steel slashing toward him and twisted to one side a fraction of a second before the blade hissed by his throat. With one hand he grabbed for the outstretched arm and with the other shoved against Courtney’s chest and spun her off balance and back against the wall. She recovered swiftly, pivoted around, and lashed out with her nails. Adrian felt flesh and hair torn in thin runnels from his scalp. He slammed a brutal punch into her midsection, one that drove the air from her lungs and left Courtney doubled over in agony.

  Ballantine kicked savagely at the knife and sent it spinning safely out of reach before he grabbed a fistful of her hair and used it to brace her as he cracked the flat of his hand in a series of stinging slaps across her cheeks.

  She continued to fight him, to flail at his chest and face with her fists, scarcely able to see past the wall of pain. He lost his grip on her hair and sought a firmer one on her shirtfront, but the cloth tore away in shreds as she struggled to break free. The sudden release sent her sprawling backward, and as she raised her hands to protect her face from an impact with the wall, the heavy chain whipped up and grazed her temple.

  Ballantine was by her side in two strides. He reached for the remnants of her shirt and held her braced against the wall. The blow from the chain had dazed her, and she could no longer summon the strength to resist as he drew his fist back for the final blow. Something at the last possible moment made him look down—down to where the binding cloth had been wrestled awry.

  His fist froze by his shoulder. He stared first at the torn garment in his hand, then at the soft mounds of her breasts where they had sprung free and the two firm pink nipples that pointed accusingly at him. Courtney’s head lolled weakly to one side, and he felt the splash of a hot tear on the back of his hand.

  He lowered his fist slowly. Then, as if he had discovered he was holding a red hot coal, he jerked his hands free from all contact.

  He opened and closed his mouth. Then he simply gaped at her speechlessly.

  Courtney turned her face away and fumbled to cover herself. Her motions were clumsy, slowed by pain and numbness from the hard slaps. She was still doubled over from the effects of th
e punch to her belly. Ballantine reached out a hand, but drew it back again when he heard a half-sobbed curse and saw her fold her knees up so that they were tucked protectively against her chest. A thin trickle of blood seeped from a split on her lip, and he saw, to his further horror, red welts rising on her cheeks from the imprints of his hand and fist.

  The initial shock that had drained Ballantine’s complexion now darkened it painfully. He was stunned by the knowledge that Duncan Farrow's son was a girl—a girl that he had slapped and punched into submission.

  “Good God,” he muttered. “Why the devil didn’t you say something when you were brought on board?”

  “Why?” she demanded bitterly. “So you could have sent me with the other women to be put to better use? I know what has been done to them every day and night since they were brought on board. I have heard the screams.” A sob caught in her throat. “At least I have cheated you out of six days and nights, Yankee.”

  The lieutenant took a deep breath to reply, but the denial had to be swallowed unheard. Since the ship’s captain had a healthy interest in female captives, the crew saw no reason not to follow his example and the women had been used hard every night.

  The sight of the girl cringing against the wall was fraying Ballantine’s nerves. He took a step toward her, but stopped when he saw her flinch even further back. The torn edges of her shirt were bunched to one side, and he marked the gleam of a gold locket where it hung around her neck on a leather thong. That and the sharp contrast between the soft unmarked flesh of her breasts and the harsh black iron chains caused him to curse aloud. He strode over to his desk and yanked the center drawer open, snatching up a ring of keys before he went back to where Courtney was crouched.

  “Hold out your hands.” he commanded.

  When she did not budge, he cursed again and dragged one resisting arm forward.

  “I am not going to hurt you,” he said impatiently. “Now hold still or by God—”

  "You will do what? Hit me again?"

  Ballantine swore and Courtney winced under the pressure of his fingers as he twisted the manacles up to receive the key; but her eyes did not leave his face, not even when the two inch-thick banks of iron were unbolted.