On the beach of Snake Island, he had overheard Verart Farrow issue his final command to Seagram—to protect Courtney at all costs, even at the cost of his life.
“No,” she snarled. “Seagram will never pass up the opportunity to destroy this ship. Not even for me.”
Ballantine’s grip tightened, his fingers laced into her flesh until she feared the bone would snap.
“We will see about that, Irish.”
He shoved her ahead of him out the door. The companionway was deserted. Shouts and sounds of confusion rumbled down from the main deck as men scrambled topside. The corridors were dark, the lower gun deck littered with debris from the hasty evacuation. Ballantine ran into the stern, bypassing the first hatchway in favor of the ladder that descended directly to the storage holds. It was steep and the rungs seemed to sag under the slightest weight, but Courtney followed the lieutenant resolutely into the blackness, his hand fast around her ankle, yanking it to each rung below.
There were fewer lights on the lower deck, and Courtney had difficulty distinguishing the huge coils of cable and spare rigging from the crouched marines who were guarding the approach to the powder magazine. Smoke was thick in the air, as was the smell of cordite and black powder.
“Anything?” Ballantine demanded in a whisper.
“Nay so much as a blessed sound, sar,” came a hoarse rasp.
“What in blazes happened down here?”
The burly Scot stepped forward and saluted smartly. “They took the lads by surprise. Eight o’ them went trompin’ through the boards afore there were even a musket to hand. Never had a chance to leave go a warnin’ shot. We was fair damned lucky the sergeant were takin’ our lads a cup o’ brew to see ‘em through the watch. We managed to cut six o’ the bastards down—dead as cobbler’s nobs they are—but two o’ the biggest an' meanest sons o’ bitches went chargin’ fair through the line o’ fire like it were no more’n bee stingers. We ken one o’ them is hurt fair bad, but the other—" Angus MacDonald shuddered. "He is nay human, that one. Nay human, I tell ye.”
Courtney’s eyesight began to adjust to the gloom, and she saw evidence of the swath Seagram had cut from one end of the hold to the other—overturned barrels, smashed planks, spilled coils of rope. Two half-starved, supposedly defeated men had managed to bring a mighty Yankee warship to a complete standstill and gave every indication of keeping it that way.
Ballantine sensed her excitement, and the iron grip tightened around her arm.
“Try anything,” he hissed, “anything at all, and my first shot goes directly between those big green eyes.”
He steered her against the bulkhead and signalled to MacDonald.
“Keep a sharp eye on the boy. When I tell you to, bring up a lantern and shine it on his face. And if anything goes wrong, kill him.”
MacDonald acknowledged the order with a curt nod and took firm hold of Courtney's arm as the lieutenant stepped in front of the smashed door to the magazine.
There was absolute darkness inside. The faint light from the companionway made the back of Ballantine’s white shirt glow eerily and set him off as a perfectly silhouetted target for the men inside.
“I am coming in,” he said clearly.
“Hold up, Yankee,” a voice growled. “Or the next step you take is into eternity.”
“You asked to speak to someone in charge.”
“Ye ain’t the captain.”
“No. I am not. But I am the best you are going to get.”
There was a pause. “Ye wouldn’t be the yellow-haired bastard, now would ye?”
“I believe we met briefly on the beach.”
“Aye,” Seagram chuckled dryly. “That we did. And before that, methinks. Gun to gun. It was you at the helm during the fighting, was it not?”
“It was.”
“Then come away, Yankee,” Seagram growled. “I would never refuse a brave man the chance to die in my company. Just remember, I have a bit o’ powder here and a pistol primed and ready. The banter ends when ye step through that door.”
“Fair enough.”
Ballantine’s shoulders disappeared into the cavernous gloom. Courtney’s heart had begun to pound even harder at the sound of Seagram’s voice. Her brow was moist, her palms clammy from the tension. She glanced sidelong at the Scottish jailer, but he was watching her as warily as he would a coiled serpent. She had to find a way to reach Seagram! She had to get inside the powder magazine and make him blow up the ship!
Ten feet away, Ballantine was searching the blackness with every sense tuned for a sign of movement. A shuffle, a scrape of wood or cloth, a heavy breath would give him some idea of where the danger lay. Until he could pinpoint both men, he was at their mercy. Felt-encased cartridges for the cannon were stacked floor to ceiling all around him, the powder inside so volatile that a single spark would bring a swift, explosive end to all discussions.
“You sent for me with a specific reason in mind, I presume?”
“Aye, Yankee. To send you and yer ship to hell.”
“You would be sending yourself and your men along with us,” Adrian pointed out calmly.
The remark was met with a snort of contempt. “We are halfway there now, ye bastard. We would just be making quicker work of it.”
“Then why the delay? Half my crew have already abandoned ship.”
Seagram’s chuckle drifted as he moved a step to the side. The corsair was directly ahead, Ballantine decided. Probably shielded by casks—powder casks. He also detected a hint of sulphurous smoke in the vicinity, smoke from the type of slow wick kept alight during battle.
“Ye’re a cool one, Yankee, I'll hand ye that. But I’ve a trade in mind.”
“A trade for what”
“Yer ship. In exchange for a day’s sail to land. I want the chains struck and my lads sent ashore. Then ye can have yer lives and yer ship and sail to perdition for all I care.”
“And if I do not consider the trade a reasonable one?”
There was another heavy pause. “Then we have nothing to discuss. My men are dying from weakness and fever. If they live, they live to see a hangman’s noose for their trouble. We have nothing to lose. I have their heartiest wishes with me—and you have the length of a short fuse to decide.”
Ballantine flinched involuntarily as a spark and hiss crackled out of the shadows directly beside him. He had not sensed that the other man was so close, nor would he have believed anyone to be insane enough to hold a burning fuse in the midst of a mountain of black powder.
“I cannot make the decision myself,” Adrian said quickly. “I would have to consult with the captain.”
"Ye barely have time to consult with the Devil,” Seagram growled. “Nilsson’s waving a two-minute wick there and his eyesight is so poor, it will take him that long just to find the bucket to douse it in.”
“In that case, I have a counteroffer.”
“Nilsson!”
Ballantine raised his voice. “I have a friend of yours standing in the companionway now. A friend whom I am sure you would be eager to see.”
“A friend? What trickery is this, Yankee?”
“No trickery. There were three of you together on the beach. Farrow died, you are here, and so is the boy.”
A minute passed before Ballantine heard the corsair rasp an order to his companion. The wick spluttered into silence as it was plunged into a bucket of water. Adrian felt a sudden cool shiver of relief wash over him; instantly, it was lost to fiery rage when he heard a brief commotion in the outer corridor. A blurred shadow hurled through the doorway leaving a scream of Scottish oaths in its wake.
An instant's worth of hesitation on Courtney’s part as she plunged into the darkness allowed Adrian to snake an arm around her waist and spin her off course before she could join Seagram.
“Damn you, let me go!" She writhed against his arm and kicked out sharply with her heels. “Seagram! Seagram! Blow the damned ship! Blow it clear out of the water!”
Adrian ignored the flaying arms and feet and backed up toward the door so that the pistol he held against Courtney’s temple was revealed by the light. When he cocked it, the sound was loud enough in her ear to make her struggles cease for as long as it took her to catch her breath.
“Seagram,” she gasped weakly.
“Court? Court, is that you?”
“Oh God...Seagram! Blow the damned ship!”
The cold snout of the pistol nudged more forcefully into the underside of her jaw and choked her into silence. Seagram had risen from behind a low wall of powder kegs, and Ballantine could faintly distinguish the giant’s frame against the surrounding casks and shells. A stray beam of light centred on the glittering black eyes and made them glow out of the darkness like two hellish embers.
“Now that I have your attention,” Ballantine murmured. “I believe we can settle this situation quickly.”
“Do not listen to him, Seagram!” Courtney cried hoarsely. “Do not do anything he says! Do not believe anything he says! Do what you were going to do. Blow them up!”
Seagram stared at the silhouette of the gun held to Courtney’s throat. One of his massive paws came up, and Adrian saw a gleam of metal hover over an unstoppered bunghole of a powder cask.
“Do it,” Ballantine said evenly, “and have the pleasure of seeing the top of her head explode before your finger finishes pulling the trigger.”
“No, Seagram! No! We will never have another chance like this. Think of Verart! Think of Duncan and Garrett!”
“Think of the promise you made to Verart on the beach,” Adrian countered harshly. “The vow you made to protect her.”
“You will be protecting me, Seagram,” she cried desperately. We will never be free again—not with the chains and puppet trials and gallows they have waiting for us. I do not want to die that way, Seagram. I do not want to die that way!”
The air rumbled in Seagram’s chest, and the pistol moved fractionally closer to the open spout.
“And I will swear to you here and now that nothing will happen to the girl,” Ballantine countered smoothly. “She will travel to Gibraltar under my protection, and she will have a fair trial at the end.”
“That is no kind of guarantee, Yankee. Especially from the bastard who ordered her locked in an iron box for a week.”
Adrian’s jaw tensed. “I had no idea who she was. Neither does anyone else, and I will see to it things stay that way.”
“Not good enough. When we reach Gibraltar, ye'll set her free,” Seagram snarled. "Ye'll set her free, without threat of trial, with no further threat of arrest hanging over her head. Ye'll guarantee this, Yankee, an' seal it with yer word, or we have nothing more to say.”
Ballantine was losing grip on his patience. The sweat was forming runnels from his hairline to his neck, and his hand was slippery on the brass stock of the pistol. He could feel Courtney poised to take advantage of the slightest mistake he might make, and he already knew the second corsair had maneuvered to within arm’s reach, waiting.
“I will see that she is set free when we land,” he agreed through clenched teeth. “What happens to her after that will be up to her. It is the best offer I can make—the only offer I can make.”
The black eyes wavered from the lieutenant’s face to Courtney’s.
“I gave my word to Verart,” he said slowly. “As long as I was alive, no harm would come to her. I want the same from you, Yankee. Yer word on it. Yer word as an officer and a man. As long as ye’re alive, no harm will come to her.”
“No Seagram,” Courtney gasped in disbelief. “Oh no, Seagram no...”
“Give me that, Yankee, and a promise of decent treatment for the rest of the men, and ye can have yer ship back.”
Ballantine stood rigid, the urge toward violence pulsing through his veins like liquid fire. If he refused, it was certain death; he had no doubt the corsair would carry through on his threat to blow up the Eagle. If he agreed, he had no idea how in God's name he would be able to honor his word, but honor it he would.
“You have my word,” Adrian said and removed the muzzle of the gun from Courtney’s throat.
Seagram’s great shoulders appeared to slump as he placed his gun carefully on the lid of the cask. Courtney wrenched out of Ballantine’s arms and stumbled forward, fighting tears of anger and frustration. They had the Yankees by the throat! They had their revenge for Verart, for Duncan, and for Snake Island within their grasp! She could not allow it to slip away on the wings of a foolish promise!
Courtney ran with her arm outstretched, her hand clawing for the gun Seagram had set aside. But this time it was the solid sinew of the corsair’s arm that stopped her. She felt it come between her and the gun, and the next thing she knew, she was sobbing against Seagram’s chest. It was only when she heard the stifled groan and felt the tremendous body shudder that an even greater horror became clear.
Seagram was hurt. She felt a slippery warmth on her hands, and the shock of it froze her tears on her lashes as she gaped up at him.
“S’nothin’, lass,” he said quietly. “A pinprick from a toy solider. He paid dearly for the insult.” The black eyes found Ballantine’s over the top of Courtney’s head. “Almost as dearly as the fancy lieutenant here.”
Adrian’s jaw flexed as he acknowledged the man’s cunning. The wound had to be fatal and Seagram knew it. And so he had bought safe passage for Courtney Farrow, fulfilling the vow he had made to her uncle.
Ballantine barked a crisp order to the marines out in the companionway. He placed a hand on Courtney’s shoulder to pull her from the corsair, but she savagely pushed it away.
“No! I will not go with you! I will not play your stupid games any longer. I release you from your promise, do you hear me? The oath you gave Seagram means nothing—nothing!”
Several burly, heavily armed marines crowded the entrance to the powder magazine. Ballantine looked coldly at Seagram, who nodded and pried Courtney’s arms away from his waist.
“Court, ye’ve got to go with him,” he urged in a low voice. “It's yer only chance to walk away from this.”
“But you, Seagram...what about you?” When there was no response, she turned to Ballantine, her eyes burning with tears. “What will happen to Seagram? He will be punished for this, won’t he? He will be punished and he will die and it will all have been for nothing!”
“Not for nothing,” Seagram said. “I couldn’t have lived with Verart dead, lass, ye know that.”
Courtney’s eyes shimmered in the lantern light that spilled through the doorway. Nilsson was outlined in the yellow light. A short, brawny man, he stood braced against the large water barrel in the corner. The front of his shirt was soaked through with blood, but the soldiers paid little heed to his wounds as he was hauled upright and prodded toward the door.
Seagram grunted in pain as two marines locked his arms behind his back and jabbed a musket against his ribs. Courtney started toward him again, but Adrian held her firm as did Seagram’s dark, commanding eyes. They flicked up to lock on the lieutenant’s for a long moment.
“Yer word had best be good, Yankee,” he murmured ominously. “If not, I'll be back for ye. One way or another, I'll be back for ye.”
Ballantine returned the penetrating stare before he nodded to the guards. Courtney’s final, futile cry was stifled by a hand that was longing more to wrap itself around her throat than her mouth. When the congestion of soldiers had dispersed in the outer room, Ballantine dragged Courtney along beside him. He did not trust himself to speak, did not trust his anger to be satisfied with words.
Matthew Rutger looked up, startled, as the slender figure was propelled violently through the doorway to the surgery. Two of his assistants and Dickie Little were present so there was not much he could say beyond a lame, “What on earth has been going on? I have got seven dead men on my hands, and three more who look like they will be dead shortly."
“How many?” asked Adrian.
“Wounded? Eno
ugh to make you think we were attacked by a small army.”
“Have them on their feet and outside the captain’s cabin in five minutes. He will be calling for blood and frankly, I would willingly hand the entire incompetent lot over to him.”
Adrian strode back to the door but paused long enough to shoot a withering glance at Courtney. “Keep our friend here with you until the excitement dies down. And if he dares to open his mouth or disobey a direct order, you have my heartiest encouragement to thrash his hide raw.”
Matt was silenced by the degree of venom in the lieutenant’s voice. Not so Courtney, who took her life in her hands by reaching out to clutch at Adrian’s arm.
“Please,” she cried softly. “What will happen now? What will happen to Seagram?”
Ballantine’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and he glared at her hand until she removed it from his arm.
“If he is smart, he will find a way to end it himself before morning. If not, the captain will be only too happy to oblige.”
~~
Ballantine checked the conditions in the brig and ensured there were sufficient guards posted to discourage any further troubles. Ten wounded marines were assembled at ramrod attention in the wardroom and dared not meet his eyes as he and Sergeant Rowntree entered. Also present were the second lieutenant, Otis Falworth, and the ship’s chaplain, John Knobbs. The latter looked plainly ill at ease as he acknowledged Adrian’s arrival.
“He is in a terrible mood, Mr. Ballantine. The alarm apparently roused him out of a warm bed and interrupted some rather...er, amorous endeavors.”
“Thank you for the warning, Chaplain,” Adrian said dryly. He rapped lightly on the captain’s door.
“Come!”
Ballantine drew a deep breath and turned the latch. Captain Jennings was standing in front of his desk, his back to the door, his hands behind him clasping and unclasping in irritation. His bulbous figure had been clad in haste. The buttons down his shirtfront were mismatched to their loops, his breeches sagged without benefit of braces, his ankles showed bare over the tops of his buckled shoes.
The cabin was a shambles. Anticipating the need to abandon ship, desk drawers had been opened and their contents dumped into one of the large sea chests. Clothes were scattered across the floor; the cabinets had been emptied of their expensive gold plate. The sole incongruity in the storm of confusion was the olive skinned, raven-haired beauty who sat draped across a wing chair looking as unruffled as if she had just attended a Sunday picnic.
Wind and the Sea Page 10
