Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  Garrett's frown dissolved under another hearty chuckle. "He is yours. The doctor too if you have a mind to train two whimpering curs. Moreover, when we arrive in Tripoli, you will get a full captain's share of whatever profit they bring. You deserve as much for the trouble and pain you have gone through." He raised his goblet again. "To victory, Court. And revenge. 'Tis sweet as nectar when properly won, and by Christ, today's was sweet."

  "To revenge," she murmured. "Best served up cold with a very sharp blade."

  Chapter Twelve

  The weather continued to unleash foul, gusting winds and rain until well after midnight. The Eagle was joined to the Falconer with a twisted umbilical of thick cables, and towed behind the corsair to a deep-water inlet protected on three sides by tall palm trees and craggy, weed-covered slopes. Work on repairs began in earnest, despite the periods of downpour, thunder, and lightning. The crew of the Falconer had never been known to waste muscle on clean decks and spotless brass work, but the ship’s sails were refitted to within a degree of perfection, the guns were serviced and made ready for any emergency that might arise, and the racks of cutlasses and spikes were cleaned and sharpened to a gleaming deadliness.

  On board the Eagle, the American crew, under Sergeant Rowntree’s supervision, worked grudgingly to patch and repair the damages. The best that could be hoped for was to plug the holes and keep her from floundering; any number of high waves had threatened to swamp her during the short tow. She was fitted with two large mainsails from the Falconer’s spares, but all three masts were either cracked or completely blown away from the topgallants up and Shaw decided against making replacements. He wanted her seaworthy, not in fighting form.

  The women captives from Snake Island, newly released from the Eagle’s hold, were pleased to rummage through the small mountains of looted belongings and reclaim many of their own possessions. The bulk of the clothing was water-and smoke-damaged, but still in better condition than what they had been forced to work and sleep in for the past eight days. Courtney had shown only mild curiosity about the bickering and haggling that took place over sorting the looted goods. She had not owned any fine clothes and had no interest in them now. She chose a long, hot bath instead, a feast of roast mutton, cheese, freshly baked biscuits, and a duff pudding thick with eggs and sugar. At Garrett Shaw’s insistence, she occupied the Falconer’s greatcabin—alone—and on her own initiative, she had most of the garish furnishings removed and a few simple pieces brought in to replace the rubble.

  The work kept her mind occupied. During the lapses, however, her thoughts wandered topside. She knew Adrian Ballantine had spent an endless, miserable night lashed to the ship’s rigging, but there had been nothing she could do—or wanted to do—to intercede. She dared not show too much concern for his welfare lest Shaw reconsidered his decision and revoked her 'ownership'. She had ventured out at first light and had seen Dr. Rutger, but she had not singled him out or spoken to him. The appalling conditions in which the wounded were being kept—exposed to the elements and without medicines of any kind—deterred her from wanting to contact him; she knew what recriminations she would see in the soft brown eyes.

  She had stolen a glimpse at the shrouds, but the sight of Ballantine—his head lolled forward in the dripping morning mist, his arms spread and stretched, his shirt and trousers torn over bruised and scraped flesh—disturbed her more than she cared to admit, even to herself. She had not pressed to have him released immediately, which seemed to allay any suspicions Garrett might have had about her apparent flush of sympathy.

  Only after breakfast had come and gone did she seek out the short, wiry first mate, Davey Dunn. He was just emerging from the beakhead, his face rumpled in a frown as he searched arduously for a louse that was on the prowl somewhere beneath his trousers.

  “Ye want what?”

  Her cheeks flamed. Davey was a good man, a skilled and fearsome fighter who had been with Duncan Farrow at least ten years. He had no use for subtleties, had probably never spoken in a whisper since childhood, and did not seem to care whose attention he drew to any conversation, private or otherwise.

  “I said,” she repeated, lowering her voice pointedly, “I would like to have one of the prisoners brought to my cabin.”

  “Yer cabin? What fer?

  “To talk. I have some questions ─”

  “Capt’n Shaw know about this?”

  “He knows all about it,” Courtney replied evenly. “We spoke yesterday and—”

  “Capt’n Shaw’s over to the Yankee ship,” he said and phfit! spat a stream of oily yellow spittle out of the corner of his mouth. And as if that was the signal to end the conversation, he turned and started to walk away from her.

  “When will he be back?”

  “Eh? Dunno.”

  “Well, if he is not here, I guess you will just have to take my word for it and cut the prisoner down and deliver him into my care.”

  He considered the request for a moment and worked the large cud of tobacco from one cheek to the other.

  Phfit! “Nope. Not without the Capt’n says so. And ‘specially not if ye’re talking about who I think ye’re talkin’ about.”

  Courtney placed her hands on her hips. “And just who do you think I am talking about?”

  “Fancy Britches. The one we got strung up in the shrouds.” He paused and flashed an ochre grin. “The one Capt’n Shaw says can hang there till his dick shrivels and blows away in the wind.”

  Courtney could see she was getting nowhere fast.

  “Very well, I see I will have to have someone row me across to the Eagle so I can speak to the captain.”

  “Nope.”

  “And why not?”

  Dunn’s head was bent as he resumed the search for the recalcitrant louse. At the sound of the irritation in her voice, his eyes flicked up to hers. “Cause he left orders he weren’t to be disturbed—by anyone. He ain’t slept since two days gone and he were lyin’ there, out like a sot, last time I saw. An’ sure as I can spit”—phfit—“he’d raise all hell if he was woke for some yellow-backed son of a whore like Fancy Britches. Ahh, got the mangy bastard!” He held up the glutted louse and squashed it between thumb and forefinger, then wiped away the blot on his shirtfront.

  Courtney ground her teeth. “Then the choice seems rather clear to me. Either you cut the lieutenant down on my orders, or I swim across to the Eagle and make sure the captain knows it was your stubbornness that drove me to do it!”

  “Seems like ye’re willin’ to go to a peck o’ trouble jest to ask some questions. What kind o’ questions are ye askin’?”

  "The kind that want answers. And if the answers concern you, I will let you know.”

  They glared at one another for a full minute, to the amusement of the crewmen within hearing distance. Dunn’s low opinion of most women was well known and to see him squaring off with Courtney Farrow—and in danger of losing—was a sight to be savored.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Will you have him cut down and brought to my cabin, or—”

  Phfit!

  “I'll cut him,” Dunn scowled unpleasantly. “No need to flap yer nostrils, I'll cut him. I'll even bring him to you personal, but if I find out these questions have anythin’ to do with what’s in his fancy britches, I'll take the lash to ye meself!”

  Having neatly shifted the brunt of the joke to Courtney, Dunn strode away and left her standing open-mouthed by the deck rail. She realized it was a mistake to aggravate him, because now he would be watching her like a hawk. She knew it was probably an even bigger mistake not to tell Shaw about Seagram’s dying words.

  Trust no one, Seagram had warned. Not a friend or lover, not a man or woman, not even a crack in the wall. Courtney knew, she knew she could trust Davey Dunn, and yet...he was here and Duncan was not, and she could not recall a time when Dunn was more than five feet from her father's side during a battle.

  And why was she trying to protect Ballantine? That question had kept her awake m
ost of the night and she was no closer to a rational answer now.

  Courtney hurried back to the great cabin. Cleared of battle damage, the floor afforded a wide area in which to pace and she worked herself into such a state that she was all but ready to cancel the request for an audience with Ballantine when she heard the dragging footsteps out in the companionway.

  She yanked the door open and was met by a ragged, soaked shadow of a man.

  “Here he be,” Dunn announced unnecessarily and shoved Ballantine through the door without waiting for a nod from Courtney. “A prime proud specimen of manhood, if I ever saw one.”

  Ballantine’s clothing was in shreds, drenched and clinging to muscles that twitched with spasms in the sudden warmth. His hair was plastered to his brow and neck; his wrists were raw and bled fresh pink onto the ropes that bound them together. A second length of rope was stretched from his wrists to his ankle chains, making it impossible for him to raise his hands more than an inch from his body, or to take anything but small shuffling footsteps.

  How does it feel, Yankee? She wanted to ask. Forced to stand in your own filth and humiliation while someone clean and well-fed gloats victoriously over you?

  “Thank you, Davey.” She said quietly. “You can leave us.”

  “Alone?” The grizzled brows shot up to his hairline.

  “Yes, alone! You can stand outside with a cocked pistol, if you like, but I will speak to him alone!”

  Dunn chewed fiercely on the wad of tobacco for a moment and screwed up the corner of his mouth for an explosion of juice. A particular sharpness in Courtney’s stare made him stop and swallow noisily before peering up at Ballantine.

  “Damn right, I will be outside the door. And if I so much as hear ye cough funny, I'll be after yer bowels like a hungry shark.”

  Ballantine did not respond.

  Dunn shuffled grudgingly to the door and muttered a curse as he slammed it behind him.

  Courtney exhaled slowly. Ballantine kept his head tilted forward and his gaze fixed on the floor; there was nothing but the pat pat pat of water dripping off his hair and clothes to break the silence.

  She had not realized the extent of his injuries. Aside from the copious bruising and scratches, he had a cut over his eye, an ugly furrow deep to the bone that must have been throbbing devilishly. His complexion was flushed, whether from anger or fever she did not know.

  “We seem to have found different ways to spend the night, Yankee,” she said quietly. He did not react; only the briefest of quivers in the ropes binding his wrists told her he had heard what she said.

  “Apparently you fail to see the irony in our changed positions,” she continued and crossed over to stand beside the broken gallery window. "I find it rather amusing, myself, that our positions are the exact reverse to what they were a few short days ago. Me, the victor; you, the vanquished. Have you nothing at all to say? No plea for quarter from the desperate cutthroat pirates you so recently scorned? I warned you not to underestimate us. I warned you that no matter what it took, we would have our revenge.”

  His voice was so low, his response was almost inaudible. “I am glad to see you were not hurt in the fighting.”

  Courtney shot a glance over at him, uncertain whether the tautness in his voice was bitterness or sarcasm.

  “I find it difficult to believe you were worried one way or the other.”

  “Worried is probably too strong a word,” he agreed easily. “Curious is more like it...although I have always heard that cats land on their feet. You have the temperament, and the instinct to have nine lives so, no... I guess it does not surprise me in the least that you lived through this.”

  A touch of color leaked into her cheeks. “Your own survival is quite amazing in light of the chances you take. I heard about your confrontation with Shaw yesterday on deck. I am astonished it was not you he shot instead of the other sailor.”

  Adrian could taste the hot, metallic sourness of fever at the back of his throat. He wished he could free a hand to wipe away the beads of sweat crawling down his temples, or free his pride to ask for a single mouthful of cold, clean water...but he could do neither.

  “Where is Matt?” he asked in a strained whisper.

  “Here. On board the Falconer with the rest of the wounded.”

  “And their condition?”

  “How should I know?” she snapped. “I am not a doctor, not even an interested observer. I could care less if they all rotted of corruption to the last man.”

  He lifted his head and looked at her for the first time. His eyes were red-rimmed from pain and fatigue, underscored with plum-coloured smudges, but they still managed to convey a wealth of contempt across the length of the cabin. "He could have given you up the first day."

  "I could have encouraged Shaw to kill you both yesterday."

  “Why didn't you?"

  Her eyes flashed as she paced away from the window. She stopped by the sideboard, and after a moment of thought, poured herself a mug of water. “Captain Shaw had his heart set on killing you before I stepped in. I can easily step out again, with a clear conscience, having made the offer and having had the offer refused.”

  “What offer would that be?”

  “Your life. The same offer you made me as I recall.”

  Adrian closed his eyes briefly, wearily. “I will not play anyone’s fool,” he said quietly.

  “Then neither you nor the doctor will live to see Tripoli.”

  “Tripoli?” A start jolted his eyes open again. “Is that where we are bound?”

  “You are bound for a life of slavery, Lieutenant Yankee. Garrett plans to sell your ship and your men to Yusef Karamanli. He believes the Pasha will pay handsomely for tall white-skinned eunuchs to tend his fields and I have no reason to doubt him.”

  Courtney watched his expression change, watched the apprehension grow as the words sank through the fever. Was it just occurring to him that this could be only the beginning? Had he truly never considered, despite hanging in the shrouds all night, there would be graver consequences in defeat? At least she had been warned from the outset of her days with Duncan Farrow that capture, imprisonment, even death were all real possibilities. Almost inevitabilities. They gave meaning and value to the word freedom, something the Yankees obviously took for granted.

  The shadow Courtney saw, or imagined she saw, in Ballantine’s eyes was quickly brought under guard again.

  “Jennings...is he still alive?”

  “Are you worried about him?”

  “He is the Eagle’s commanding officer.”

  “You need not concern yourself," she snorted derisively. "He is receiving suitably hospitable treatment.”

  “Then he is alive?”

  Courtney paused. “Yes. Although again, I cannot predict for how long, or in what condition he will arrive in Tripoli. As for yourself—" she set the mug of water down— “I think it only fitting I return the favors you so generously afforded me. You will have the opportunity to earn an easier passage by fetching my meals and tidying the cabin; you can scrub the floors, polish my boots, empty the thunderpot each morning. It will be good practice for when you receive your loincloth and iron anklets.”

  The rope joining Ballantine’s wrists to his ankles strained to its limit. “It will be a cold day in hell, madam, before I become anyone’s bootboy—especially yours.”

  The emerald eyes glittered vindictively. “You would prefer to be chained to the rigging again?”

  “I would prefer to take my chances out in the open with the rest of my crew. Matt is badly hurt; he cannot be expected to cope with all of the wounded alone.”

  “And you want me to send you out to him?” she cried in amazement. “And just what, in all of your bloody arrogance, makes you think for one minute I would honor such a request? Have you forgotten the number of times I asked—no, pleaded to be sent back to my uncle’s men? Have you also forgotten your answer to me? That I was no ordinary prisoner! Well, clear your ears for the
news, Lieutenant Yankee: you are no ordinary prisoner either! I will not be offering you one single consideration over and above what you offered me. I will not tell you how your crew is faring! I will not tell you how many of your wounded have died or how the others are being treated! I will see them starved and flogged and forced to work until they drop dead on their feet! I will treat you exactly the way you treated me, and by God, if it is called for, you will feel the same bite from the flat of my sword!”

  Courtney’s hands were curled into fists, and her chest heaved beneath the thin cambric shirt as if she had been running. She whirled away from Ballantine, not trusting herself to keep her nails from scoring his face, not wanting him to see the bright shine of tears in her eyes. Tears! What was happening to her! Where was her rage, her vengeance? Why was the simple act of his standing there and looking at her making her knees weak and her mouth dry? How could she fight the twenty different emotions clashing inside her if all he had to do so was look at her and she was lost?

  “You will do so exactly what I tell you to do,” she said through clenched teeth, “or your Dr. Rutger will find himself strapped to the rigging beside you, and this time there will be no shirt, no coat between him and the lash.”

  Adrian swayed slightly. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and twisted his wrists against the cords that were binding them. He welcomed the searing pain as his already damaged flesh was smeared bloody. His only thought was to free his hands, to reach the narrow shoulders, the arch of her throat...to squeeze until the life was choked out of her.

  “Matt helped you,” he said evenly. “He helped your uncle’s men, too. I do not believe you would take your anger at me out on him.”

  “You are doing it again, Yankee: guessing what I will and will not do.” She shook her head slowly. “And what I will not do is be any less the daughter my father expects me to be. There is more at stake here than merely a desire to appease my pride, more even than wanting to see you humiliated the way you humiliated me. There are deaths to be avenged, wrongs to be atoned for, traitors to be exposed. But, then you must know all about traitors, Yankee,” she said, facing him. “Or have you not wondered yet how Captain Shaw came to be in possession of your naval codes?”