Garrett Shaw grinned and barked out a curt order. A moment later, two burly pirates had Adrian’s arms locked painfully behind his back as they propelled him forward.
Shaw’s chest rumbled with amusement. “So you lived, eh, Yankee? Your skull must be damned near as hard as mine not to have split apart twelve ways to Sunday.” The bulging arms crossed over his chest. “You have the look and smell of an officer about you.”
“First Lieutenant Adrian Ballantine,” Adrian rasped. “Of the United States warship Eagle.”
The corsair studied him for a moment. “Ballantine, eh? I have heard about you. And your ship. I was warned we could not afford to give you any advantage, and certainly not the courtesy of a polite challenge. Still,” he paused and a flash of white teeth slowly appeared. “I hardly expected you to spread your legs like a virgin on her wedding night."
He was referring to the disastrous course change that had backed the Eagle flush against the land, and more humiliating, their complete lack of battle readiness. Adrian bore the man’s justified mockery in silence.
“My ship—?" he began.
“A fine vessel. A pity we had to put so many holes in her. You should have hove to when we suggested it the first time.”
Adrian tipped his head up and blinked through the sheeting rain, peering at the tall mainmast and the pennant bearing the charging red lion. "You fly Duncan Farrows pennant," he noted.
“Aye, we fly his colors.” Garrett Shaw’s voice took on a gravel-sharp edge. “And we will continue to fly them until the lives of our brethren are avenged.”
“Farrow?” Ballantine lowered his gaze again, bracing himself as a wave of dizziness rippled gently through him.
“Taken in a trap that reeked of Yankee treachery—the depths of which we could scarcely believe until we set foot ashore our island.”
As if on cue, Shaw shifted his focus to a point past Adrian’s shoulder where the line of former captives from Snake Island were being led up through a damaged hatchway of the Eagle into the rain. Despite the battering they had suffered while trapped below during the battle, the men all wore grins on their gaunt faces. They laughed and howled greetings to their fellow corsairs, who greeted them on deck with full pannikins of rum and chunks of fresh meat and cheese.
“I had a hard time convincing my gunners not to hull your toy warship to kindling,” Shaw said tonelessly. “I told them it would be far more satisfying to see her towed like a dog into an Arab port and sold to Pasha Karamanli to be painted pink and green and displayed as a trophy. You and your men will look good in chains and loincloths, First Lieutenant Bloody Ballantine.”
“We will not be slaves to any man,” Adrian snarled. “Of that you may be sure.”
“I am sure of nothing in this world,” Shaw laughed, “except the mortality of others.”
“We have wounded.”
“Your wounded will be transferred aboard the Falconer. We have a barber who does a fair turn with a saw, and when he is finished with our lads—and if he stays sober long enough—he might be persuaded to have a look at yours."
Ballantine was having difficulty catching a breath. A loud hum in his ears muffled the voices around him. “The rest of the crew...how many? Where are they?”
“You have a hundred and a half or so still able to haul a rope without spilling their guts all over the deck. We will be putting their backs to good use in keeping this hulk afloat until we can tow her to port.”
A hundred and fifty men! Adrian’s shoulders sagged and his stomach gave a queasy lurch. Add to that an estimated thirty seriously wounded, it amounted to one hundred and eighty men out of two hundred and seventy!
“The captain?” he gasped. “Where is Captain Jennings? I demand to be taken to him.”
“You are not in a position to demand anything, Lieutenant Bloody Ballantine.”
Adrian swallowed hard. The rain felt suddenly icy cold on his face. He shuddered and felt the hands grasp his arms tighter.
The corsair took a deep breath and bellowed into the air, “Davey!”
“Aye!” Came the return shout from somewhere aft. “Comin'!”
Moments later, one of Shaw’s fellow corsairs vaulted over a pile of rubbish and ambled to a halt beside the captain. He was short, broad, and villainous in appearance; his wiry chestnut beard was separated from a frizz of reddish hair by the brilliance of two deep-set blue eyes. He was shy of six feet tall by eleven inches, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in muscle-packed belligerence.
“No need to shout. I were right behind ye.”
Shaw ignored the grumble. “Are the tow lines rigged, Davey?”
“Aye. Rigged and ready as she'll ever be. We moved extry pumps aboard, but the bitch is swallowin’ water almost faster’n we can turn it out. I dunno if she'll wear the trip.”
“She will wear it. The lieutenant here has kindly offered the efforts of his crew to ensure that she does.”
“The lieutenant,” Ballantine spat, “Has offered no such thing.”
“But he will,” Shaw said with a cruel smile. He signaled an order to Davey Dunn, who grinned and leaped onto the lower deck. He walked to the first American prisoner he saw and hauled the wounded man to his feet as if he were a sack of fodder. A shove between the shoulder blades sent the man stumbling forward to the ladder. Shaw, standing at the top, did not take his eyes from Ballantine’s face as he calmly unsheathed one of his pistols, took careless aim, and fired.
Adrian was in motion the instant he realized the corsair’s intent, but it was too late. The crewman staggered back with the impact of the shot, staring in horror and disbelief as a broad crimson stain spread on his shirt front. The few seconds of life remaining to him were spent in raising bewildered eyes to the lieutenant. Adrian was halted mid-stride by a hammer-like blow to his midsection from one of the guards behind him.
Shaw replaced the pistol in its sheath and coolly regarded Ballantine’s struggle to remain on his feet.
“Davey, have the wounded prisoners moved onto the Falconer. Put them in full view of the healthy bucks we leave behind and, at the first show of stubbornness, have the weakest tossed over the side. Each order afterwards that these dogs choose to disobey, toss over another.”
“Bastard.” Adrian whispered fiercely, his hands folded across his belly, trying to contain the agony. “You are enjoying this immensely, aren’t you?”
“Having the crew and officers of an American warship crawling at my feet? It would take a far better man than me not to celebrate."
“What I want to know,” Adrian gasped and straightened awkwardly, “is how the hell you managed to escape when Farrow was caught.”
Both Shaw and Davey Dunn stared at Adrian but it was Shaw who drew a fresh, loaded pistol and stepped close enough to Ballantine to thrust the muzzle against his forehead.
“Your men seem to admire you” Shaw said slowly. “Most of your crew were only on their feet because they saw the foolhardy charge you made. Shall we see if they work as hard for you now?”
The nausea grew overpowering in Ballantine’s stomach; the taste of it was in his throat. He longed for the stamina for just one lunge at the corsair—just one chance to tear out the pirate’s black heart with his bare hands.
Shaw read the desire in the lieutenant’s eyes and bent his head back and laughed. He lowered the pistol and jammed it back into his belt.
“God’s blood, Davey, get this bastard out of my sight before I am tempted to finish the job here and now. Fit him with a comely pair of bracelets and see that he has a prime location on the shrouds.”
Davey Dunn nodded to the two men holding Ballantine. They dragged him roughly toward one of the boarding planks that bridged the gap between the Falconer and the Eagle. Out of the corner of his eye, Adrian saw Matthew grope his way past the wall of wounded who had gathered silently to watch the proceedings. When he shouted his outrage at Captain Shaw, two heavy-handed pirates clubbed the doctor back and sent him reeling onto the
planks.
Adrian snarled and jerked his arms free from his guards. He pivoted on his heel and smashed his fist into one man’s face, feeling the gratifying crunch of teeth and flesh beneath his knuckles. The second guard reached for Adrian’s shoulders, but his hands slipped on the wet shirt and he was pushed off balance, crashing head first into the choppy swirl of water between the two ships.
Adrian’s surge of energy carried him around to meet Davey Dunn. A threat was there, but although the wry-faced buccaneer rose no taller than Ballantine’s armpit, the flared-nosed blunderbuss he held against one of the wounded men's temples gave him immeasurable stature.
“His life ain’t worth a pinch of fly dung if ye try it, Yankee,” he said evenly. “But ye’re welcome to learn the hard way.”
Adrian’s blazing eyes surveyed the possibilities. There was no way out. Dunn was more than four paces away; Adrian knew the man's head would be blown off before he took a step.
The wiry chestnut beard shifted as the corner of Dunn’s mouth slanted down in disappointment. He sucked in a mouthful of air and clicked it out between his teeth.
“Fer my part, I'd as soon carve yus all into shark bait and be done with it. Now move. And if I see ye so much as twitch a finger wrong, ye’ll piss blood fer a month.”
Adrian stumbled across the plank. Three more corsairs seized him up and pinioned him when he reached the deck of the Falconer. The wound over his eye had begun pouring blood; it mingled with the rain to tint his soaked shirt pink. Cold iron manacles were clamped to his wrists, and he was shoved against the rat lines while each arm was forced high and fettered by the chains to the cables.
His position on the shrouds gave him an unobstructed view of the length of the Eagle. His horror at seeing the full extent of her damages was compounded by the sight of the ragged survivors huddled opposite him in the stern. Adrian scanned the grimy, defeated faces and saw that Sergeant Rowntree was among them. He shot to his feet when he saw the lieutenant being dragged to the rigging lines. One side of the young marine's face was blackened beneath a bruise. His blue jacket and white cross-straps were torn and bloodied but he did not appear to be otherwise injured.
Otis Falworth was there too, standing by the deck rail, his face pale with shock. He looked neither right nor left; each blink seemed calculated to conserve energy. Angus MacDonald, the stalwart marine corporal, was beside Sergeant Rowntree, his expression equally grim, but his hands wisely restraining the younger man from taking any foolish action.
Loftus, Crook, Prescott...three midshipmen out of twenty that Adrian could see at a hasty glance. There was no sign of the captain.
The chains on Adrian’s wrists were yanked tight and he concentrated on choking back the cry of pain as he was bound on the shrouds. His ankles were shackled to the cables, and he could hear the corsairs laughing and spitting their contempt on him before they abandoned him to the raw wind and rain. The hum grew louder in his ears, drowning out the shouts that buzzed and whistled aboard both ships. He closed his eyes to the sight of his men being issued the ultimatum to work; he ground his teeth against the urge to shout out in fury and pain.
~~
From the deck of the Eagle. Garrett Shaw stared thoughtfully at the spread-eagled figure of the lieutenant. He recognized him as a worthy adversary, even now, when he was weakened from the fighting and the shock of defeat. The icy promise of revenge had glittered wildly in the slate-gray eyes. Ballantine was smart and not afraid to die. It was a dangerous combination and one Shaw had learned to respect over the years.
Shaw watched Davey Dunn return across the planks to the Eagle. Dunn was Duncan Farrow’s man, his first mate, his chief gunner. Stricken over the loss of Farrow and the Wild Goose, Dunn could be counted on to see that the American frigate was made seaworthy and that her crew cooperated fully. He would also consider it a finer reward than any portion of the loot scavenged from the Eagle to be given the golden-haired lieutenant as a personal vent for his rage and frustration.
Shaw turned his attention to the progress of the wounded Yankees as they were kicked and prodded to their feet. The strongest among them supported the weak and limbless, helping them across to the Falconer. The badly wounded would likely be dead within a day or two, for Shaw had no medicine or sympathy to spare. The others would only survive if they had the strength or will to do so.
Shaw issued some last-minute instructions and returned to the Falconer himself, remaining on deck long enough to ensure that his own repairs were well underway. There was no time to waste replacing sails and jury-rigging the damaged spars and yards. They were too close to the Gibraltar sea lanes for his liking. Much too close. The squall was showing signs of building again and that was the best cover he could have hoped for. With luck they would be underway within a few hours, and by nightfall, tucked away in a safe cove where they could undertake the lengthier repairs.
A shame, he thought as he descended the aft hatchway, to have decided so late in the battle to try to salvage the Yankee ship. A few dozen less holes and she could have brought a better price from the Pasha. Who would have thought the Yankees would have been so ill-prepared? From what he had heard of Lieutenant Bloody Ballantine, the man was as cunning and deadly in battle as...as Shaw was himself, by God!
Shaw chuckled as he opened the door to his greatcabin. It was smaller than its counterpart on the Eagle, more compact; furnished from the plunder of rich merchant trade ships. Since neither Garrett Shaw nor Duncan Farrow was in the habit of clearing the cabin during a battle, as the British sea captains did, the contents were frequently destroyed and the furnishings replaced.
Garrett looked about the shambles of his cabin with a scowl. Oak, mahogany, and teak splinters were scattered among the gleaming gold tableware and jewelled goblets. A Yankee shell had burst against the hull, shattering one of the gallery windows and reducing the ornately carved sideboard to kindling.
He barely had time to splutter an exasperated curse before he spied movement in one of the shadowed corners. He caught a flash of crimson, a glimpse of olive-warm thighs and shoulders, and in the next instant found himself smothered under the caresses of a sobbing, deliriously thankful Miranda Gold.
“Oh, Garrett,” she gasped. “Garrett, it was so dreadful! You cannot know the hell we have been through!”
Shaw’s dark blue eyes glinted speculatively a moment before the rakish smile reappeared. Not one to miss an opportunity, he tucked a hand beneath Miranda’s chin, another beneath the ripe swell of her buttocks, and pulled her close, his mouth demanding a more expressive show of gratitude.
Miranda tensed, but only for a second. With a stifled sob, she flung her arms up and around his shoulders, ignoring the bite of the leather belts and weapons in her eagerness to show just how thankful she was.
When the kiss ended, Shaw released her with a hearty laugh.
“Ah, Miranda. Golden Miranda. You, alone, were the one I had no doubt would survive.”
Miranda’s breasts heaved upward against the low swoop of her neckline before her breath exploded on a curse.
“Damn your soul, Garrett Shaw. Is that any way to greet someone who has endured unspeakable acts of degradation and humiliation at the hands of a sow-bellied, mush-lipped peacock for over a week?”
Garrett threw his shaggy head back and laughed harder. “If there was ever a man you could not bring to his knees with that mouth or that sweet cunny, I would exalt the bastard to sainthood myself. Come here, you lusty wench, and I will give you such a fine abusing you will not walk upright for a week!”
Miranda squealed in mock horror as Shaw’s calloused hands tore away the thin layer of cotton to free her breasts. The token resistance ended on a gasp as he lowered his head with a growl and buried his mouth between them. Her hands went around his powerful shoulders; her pelvis ground against his, and his response was so immediate, so intense, she scarcely paid heed to the slim figure who moved from the gallery balcony to stand in the doorway of the cabin. The half-close
d amber eyes met the dark emerald ones, and Miranda could not resist a smile. The tip of her tongue appeared and played across the full lower lip, which went slack again on a delicious shudder as Garrett’s hands began searching beneath the crimson skirt.
It was Miranda's turn to laugh as she pushed against Garrett's chest. "I see we are not alone."
His head came up and he frowned. "Eh?"
She smiled and pointed to the figure in the doorway, and the gun pointed unwaveringly at the flushed pair.
“Courtney!” Garrett exclaimed. “I thought you had gone below!”
“Obviously you thought wrong," she said evenly.
Shaw forced a smile. “Why the gun? We are all friends here.”
“I thought it might be needed to catch your attention.”
“And so it has.” The dark blue eyes flicked along the gleaming iron barrel to the grip of white knuckles. He walked forward slowly, halting only when the cold metal was pressing against his chest. His hand rose and he slipped a finger between the wheel-lock and the firing pin to prevent an accidental discharge as he pried the gun gently from Courtney’s grasp.
“You have my undivided attention,” he said quietly.
Courtney’s eyes lost none of their hardness. “I want to know about my father. I need to know what happened.”
Garrett’s smile faded, and he looked down at the gun in his hand.
“He was my friend, Court. We lived and sailed together, almost like brothers. The three of us: Verart, Duncan, and me. Their loss cuts me as deeply as it does you.”
“Tell me.”
“We were sold out to the Yankees,” he said bluntly and raised his head. “For a promise of gold, we were betrayed along with the Wild Goose and the Falconer.”
“Betrayed? By whom?”
“Ahh, when I find that out, girl—" his eyes took on an unholy glow— “there will be no easy death for the bastard. The O’Farrow was a good man. A good leader. He treated one and all fairly. I'll not rest until I have found out which of his men was a Judas.”
Wind and the Sea Page 21
