Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  Miranda was wrapped—barely—in one of the bedsheets. Her hair was scattered around her shoulders and lured the eye to the breathtaking expanse of flesh swelling above the line of sheeting. As Adrian watched, she raised one bare leg and hooked it lazily over the arm of the chair, an action which caused the bedsheet to ride farther up on her thigh. Her sultry amber eyes made a contemptuously slow inspection of the lieutenant from boot to hairline. She sighed and looked pointedly away, her hand tracing suggestive patterns on her lap.

  Adrian looked at the captain.

  “You took your time reporting to me, Lieutenant,” Jennings scowled.

  “I wanted to ensure all stations were back to normal.”

  “And? Are they?”

  “I have placed extra guards in the hold and ordered a work party to repair the damages immediately.”

  “Which you will personally supervise?”

  “I will, yes.”

  Jennings’ hands unclasped, then clasped together with an angry slap. “Can you tell me what in hell went wrong? I have a ship in chaos, sir. There are bodies to dispose of, wounded men whining outside my door, and officers running about like headless chickens screaming commands to abandon ship. I want explanations, Mr. Ballantine. Explanations!”

  “As far as I have been able to determine, a section of planking gave way in the bulkhead dividing the brig from a storeroom. By the time the guards were alerted, several of the prisoners had escaped.”

  “And?”

  “And they have all been accounted for.”

  “By accounted for, I assume you mean they are dead?”

  “Six of them, sir, aye.”

  “And is that the lot of them?”

  “Two additional prisoners were badly wounded, but recaptured. They are being held apart from the others.”

  “They surrendered?” Jennings’ porcine eyes squinted over the glow of the desk lamp as he half turned to question Adrian. “Without making any demands? I was told they had us by the crotch.”

  “They were more concerned with bargaining for better conditions than they were with blowing themselves to hell,” Adrian answered carefully. “And, as I said, they were both gravely wounded.”

  “Better conditions?” Jennings scoffed. “Where do they think they are? Who do they think they are?”

  “Eight of their number have died in the past week from fevers and corruption in their wounds. They only ask for clean air and a chance to wash down the hold once in a while. The ration of a cup of water and two moldy biscuits daily is not enough to keep a healthy man alive, much less a wounded man.”

  “What would you have me do?” Jennings arched a brow. “Feed them rack of lamb and pease pudding?”

  “No.” Ballantine tensed under the sarcasm, aware of the irony of having said much the same thing to Courtney. “But perhaps we could give them enough nourishment to keep them alive through the ordeal. Even slavers know the benefit of a live cargo."

  “Slavers, Mr. Ballantine, transport for profit. I am carrying these miscreants to a meeting with the gallows. Should some of them die along the way, it only eases the hangman's burden."

  Ballantine’s jaw clenched. "Commodore Preble was quite specific in his orders that prisoners were to be treated humanely."

  “Your remarks border on impertinence, Mr. Ballantine. These men and women are pirates. Thieves, whoremongers, murderers, outcasts...they deserve precisely what we give them: Nothing. Perhaps your sympathies are beginning to cloud your sense of duty. I have even heard a disturbing rumor that you now want to parole one of their whelps as your own personal steward. Is this true?”

  Ballantine was not ready to defend his actions so soon. How had Jennings found out?

  “Youth does not seem to affect their sensibilities, or their penchant for slitting throats,” Jennings said as he threw himself into a nearby chair. He laced his fingers together over his mountainous belly and pursed his fat lips. “These creatures only understand authority, Mr. Ballantine, not weakness. They respect disciplinarians, not milksops. Moreover, I am surprised you feel inclined to offer a position of some trust to one of them, rather than to one of our own lads."

  "The boy is young," Adrian said, thinking fast. "Barely nine years old. He was not even involved in the fighting, but he bears a wound that makes his arm almost useless."

  Jennings grunted. "Then what good is he to you?"

  "He can do light duties; polish boots, keep the lamps filled. The doctor has agreed to put him under Dickie's charge while I am about my duties."

  "Another bleeding heart," Jennings snorted. He glanced at the length of bare leg Miranda was showing and winked at her before frowning back up at Adrian. "How long has it been now since the death of your former steward?”

  “Three months,” said Adrian guardedly.

  “Your brother was a fine sailor. He showed promise. It is truly unfortunate that he was cut down so young. You must have grieved deeply for him.”

  “Alan’s death was an accident. I have accepted it.”

  “An accident,” Jennings mused. “Stoically said, Mister Ballantine, and indeed I envy your ability to stand back at times and regard the world as if you were not a part of it. As if you were here to judge and not be judged. In some men, such righteousness eats away at the gut until they simply explode one day from the incredible burden of constant perfection. Is that what happed to you, Lieutenant? Is that what will happen again?”

  “With regards to what, sir?”

  Jennings leaned forward and his face blossomed a mottled red. “With regards to what, sir? To your past, present, and future attitude on board this ship, sir. For your ingratiating contempt for anyone’s authority other than your own. My authority, for example. I have long felt that you hold my position on this ship in contempt. Is that not so?”

  The question was a leading one and Adrian remained tautly silent.

  “There are times when I plainly detect a burning need within you to speed me on my way to Glorious Judgement.” Jennings leaned back and smiled malevolently. “I have often wondered if Captain Sutcliffe, my unfortunate predecessor, was so forewarned?”

  Adrian barely managed to keep his voice even. “The incident with Captain Sutcliffe was an extreme case.”

  “Nevertheless, you did strike a superior officer. One would imagine, with the ice broken so to speak, the second plunge would not require half as much provocation.”

  “On the contrary, sir. The lesson was a harsh one and well-learned."

  “A wise attitude to assume, Mr. Ballantine, since you know full well you face a tribunal eager to see you cast out of the navy in disgrace should you give anyone in authority the least cause to lay further charges. You have earned the wrath of several high-ranking officers by daring to expose Sutcliffe as a drunkard and an incompetent—myself among them. But then—" Jennings spread his hands wide and smiled, savouring the flush of anger on his first officer’s cheeks—“you are already well aware of that. You are also aware that your fate rests squarely in my hands. Your good name, and that of your family, hinges on whether or not I decide you have redeemed yourself.

  “Redemption is not won by displays of arrogance or incompetence," he said, scratching at a roll of fat under his chin. "With that in mind, understand that I hold you personally to blame for the lax security which allowed the fiasco this evening to take place. Further, I shall hold you responsible for any such occurrences in the future, petty or otherwise.

  “As to the business at hand, you may inform Sergeant Rowntree that it will be my pleasure to witness the punishment of the prisoners responsible for holding my ship to ransom, tomorrow at eight bells. Three hundred strokes apiece to the pair who dared to instigate the riot, three dozen strokes to each guard who failed to contain it. The rest of the prisoners are to be put on half rations forthwith.”

  Ballantine stood in rigid silence for a long moment. “Sir, might I respectfully remind you the two prisoners were gravely wounded. Neither will survive three hundred s
trokes.”

  “Then let that be a warning to any others on board who may harbor similar fantasies of escape...or mutiny. And any further whining entreaties for clemency—" he raised his voice for the benefit of those gathered in the wardroom— “will earn the petitioner a place of honor on the shrouds beside the condemned men. Do we understand one another, Lieutenant?”

  Ballantine’s lips were drawn into a bloodless line. He looked from the captain to the girl, who was now casually swinging her leg back and forth as if the conversation was boring her.

  “I asked you, Lieutenant,” Jennings repeated slowly, “if your orders were understood?”

  “Three hundred strokes,” said Ballantine tersely. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Yes,” Jennings said, watching the lieutenant’s face closely. “This lad you feel so charitable toward—does he have a name?”

  “Curt,” Adrian said slowly. “Curt...Brown.”

  “Well?” Jennings turned to Miranda. “Do you know the lad? Is he apt to be repentant for his crimes, or is he likely to stab my officers in the back while they sleep?”

  “Curt?” The tiger eyes narrowed and Miranda’s leg swung a little slower. A frown creased her brow as she searched her memory—not very hard, truth be told, for she had no use for men until they had at least reached puberty. “Curt Brown?”

  “It was the name he gave,” said Adrian evenly.

  Miranda shrugged and would have dismissed the whole conversation with a wave of her hand, but something made her repeat the name in her head...repeat it and alter it slightly. Curt? Court? Courtney? No! It was not possible!

  She stiffened as the boredom cleared from her eyes and she became instantly alert. It was not possible the little bitch had survived! Nothing had survived the devastation on the beach and Courtney Farrow had been in the thick of it. On the other hand, if she had survived, it was entirely possible for the girl to pass herself off as a boy; she had no breasts, no hair, not a seductive bone in her dry little body. And if this Curt was truly Duncan Farrow's daughter, the only light tasks she would be doing voluntarily would be sinking a knife between the arrogant lieutenant's ribs.

  Miranda glanced at the blond officer. It only took her a moment to ascertain that he knew. His face was tense and the vein at his temple was throbbing like a snake. What game was he playing? Was he hoping to keep the girl hidden until they reached Gibraltar, then collect on the reward for himself?

  What would it be worth to him if she kept his tawdry little secret?

  She smiled and swung her leg again. “Why, yes,” she murmured, conscious of the watchful gray eyes. “Yes, I know Curt. He is an extremely stubborn lad when it comes to following orders, however, and I would not trust my back to him at all.”

  Jennings stared at Miranda, then his gaze flicked to Ballantine. He laughed suddenly, the rolls of fat around his girth jiggling obscenely. He reached out a hand, still laughing, and signaled her to move over beside his chair. When she complied, a pudgy hand slid up beneath the dragged sheets and began to roam enthusiastically between her thighs.

  “By all means then, Mr. Ballantine, keep the boy with you. Share him with that other paragon of virtue, Rutger. Just keep him out of my way and out of my sight."

  And Miranda smiled, the message in her eyes as clear as a spoken promise: Enjoy your little masquerade, Lieutenant. Until it pleases me to end it.

  Chapter Six

  Lieutenant Ballantine lingered in the wardroom only long enough to convey the captain’s orders and dismiss the men. The ten marines were shaken upon hearing the sentence of three dozen strokes; the chaplain had to sit down abruptly and seek some inner consolation before he could properly digest the horror of it all. Adrian strode into the companionway and was nearing the aft hatchway when the burly Scottish corporal, Angus MacDonald, cleared his throat and stepped apologetically into the lieutenant’s path.

  “Excuse me, sar. A word, if I may?”

  “What is it, Corporal?” Adrian demanded gruffly. “If it is about the punishments—”

  “Nay, sar. Nay. I ken ye can do nothin’ about that. 'Tis another matter. I didna ken how to say it before, but—”

  “Yes?”

  The corporal glanced over his shoulder and lowered his gravelly voice. “It’s about the prisoners, sar. They had guns. It were guns they used to break out.”

  “Guns!” Adrian’s temper flared. “Dammit man, were they not searched for weapons?”

  “Aye, sar! They was all searched! Right down to their willies, they was searched. And I would be willin’ to swear it on ma father’s soul—God rest ‘im—that nay bigger than a belt buckle went in the hold wi’ them.”

  Adrian stared at the flushed, indignant features. “Then what are you telling me, Corporal? That the guns came into their possession after they were locked in the hold?”

  “I am nay sayin’ one way or other, sar. Only tellin’ ye what I know.”

  Adrian swore under his breath and dragged a hand across his brow. How...why would anyone smuggle guns in to the corsairs? “Have you told this to anyone else?”

  “Nay, sar. The two guards what could've spoken about it are both dead. Mine are the only other eyes what seen it.”

  “Good. Good.” Ballantine brought the anger in his voice under control and laid a hand on the corporal’s shoulder. As powerfully built as Ballantine was, the Scot had him by at least six inches and several stone, and made him look a featherweight. “You did the right thing, Angus. Goddamn, I wish there was something I could do about the floggings.”

  “I have nay doubt ye’ve done ye’re best already, sar. The men and I ken that.” He straightened and glanced warningly past the lieutenant’s shoulder. “Will ye be wantin’ me to strike up a work party, sar?”

  Ballantine half-turned and saw Otis Falworth and the chaplain approaching. “Give me ten minutes, Corporal, and I will join you below.”

  The Scot nodded and excused himself just as the chaplain reach Adrian’s side.

  “I am glad we caught up to you, Lieutenant,” Chaplain Knobbs said, his brow pleated with concern. He was a gaunt, earnest man whose hands fluttered as he spoke.

  “What is it, Mr. Knobbs?”

  “The prisoners, sir. Is there nothing we can do?”

  “You heard the captain. You also heard his warning. It was quite clear. I do not think it would be in the best interests of your health or mine to plead their cases any further.”

  “But...three hundred strokes, Mister Ballantine. It is...it is too dreadful to contemplate.”

  It was not unheard of throughout fleets of all nations to pass sentences of three hundred lashes when the gravity of the crime demanded it. And they had certainly seen more than a fair share of bloody floggings on board the Eagle since Jennings had assumed command. But such punishments were usually dealt out in lots of three dozen, four dozen at the most, and given over a period of days or weeks to insure that the recipient survived to repent. Three hundred strokes of the lash, by lot, was a sentence of death. Neither a quick one, nor a clean one.

  The chaplain was still grasping for words to convey his revulsion. “Three hundred stokes is...is...”

  “Is what the captain has ordered,” Ballantine said bluntly. “The prisoners likely will not survive beyond the first fifty anyway, so save your prayers for a time when they might do some good for someone.”

  Reverend Knobbs flinched at the insensitivity of Ballantine’s statement. Adrian was aware of it too and was disgusted by it. He murmured an apology, but it was to the back of the chaplain’s head as he hurried away down the companionway.

  “Damnation,” Adrian muttered, half to himself, half to Falworth.

  “Self-righteous fools have no place on a warship,” the second lieutenant sniffed. “It is obvious he has no stomach for this life. Whatever made him choose it?”

  “Why did any of us choose it?” Ballantine said, shaking his head in reply to the snuff Falworth offered him.

  “I know why
some of us did. Family tradition, what? All of the men in my family have served in the military in some capacity or other. Few achieved less than the rank of Admiral—British Navy, of course. My father was the only disappointment. He emigrated to the colonies and fought for independence and, for his troubles, never survived past junior captain. A mini-ball, straight through the brain. From an American gun, no less.”

  “My sympathies. Now, if you will excuse me—?”

  “I do not imagine the Old Man thought to commend you on the way you averted a total disaster?”

  Adrian sighed. He did not need this. Not now. “I really was not expecting him to.”

  “Nevertheless—" Falworth tested Adrian’s patience further by selecting a fine pinch of tobacco, sniffing it, and holding a breath through the resultant sting in his nostrils and throat—“not many men would have walked blindly into an explosive situation of that kind—no jest intended. Certainly not our fearless leader. He was screaming for a jollyboat an instant after he heard they were in with the powder barrels. And now you have taken one on as a cabin boy? I can tell you, Jennings almost split his truss when he heard about it.”

  “I am flattered he bothers to take notice of what I do,” Adrian said.

  “Oh, he takes notice, Mr. Ballantine. In fact he watches you like a starving vulture. He would like nothing better than to dock in Gibraltar and be able to hand the Admiralty your head, boiled and carved.”

  “You are not telling me anything I do not already know.”

  The thin mouth slicked into a pretentious smile that did not quite touch the liquid brown eyes. “Do you know he has you watched? Day and night. I imagine if you were to rattle a few of these shadows you would find a midshipman or two striving to earn extra stripes on their cuffs.”