Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  She would kill him. If she ever broke free and if she ever had an opportunity, she would kill him for doing this! How could she have been so blind or so stupid to think that he would not make use of her?

  Another frantic burst of energy caused her arm to rub painfully against the protruding root of a tree. When she grunted away the frustrating pain, she became aware of the thin band of leather strapped to her forearm, concealed by the black silk sleeve. Holding her breath, Courtney strained awkwardly to work two fingers beneath the cuff, to coax and prod the slim handle of the dirk free of the sheath. She found it hard to believe Ballantine had failed to search her for a weapon, but she had no time to be grateful for his stupidity.

  It took a few minutes of awkward manoeuvring for her to saw through the cotton strips around her wrists; another moment of quick but gentle prying to remove the gag and massage her aching mouth. Her fingers found a swelling on the left side of her jaw; her tongue found a ragged edge where a tooth at the back of her mouth had been broken off by the blow.

  A swift slash severed the bindings around her ankles, and she sprang to her feet, the bitter sense of betrayal settling around her shoulders like an icy cloak. It was welcomed. It cleared her mind of all soft and foolhardy thoughts, and brutally forced her to face the truth.

  Ballantine had used her. Moreover he had likely been using her all along, on board the Eagle; first to effectively stop Seagram from blowing up his damned ship, then later, after the table was turned, to earn sympathetic treatment for his men. He had seduced her, used her. And then he had let her make a fool of herself by helping him to escape, by prying out the name of the man he had been sent to find, by providing him with the means to hold Garrett to ransom. No doubt he was standing, at the very moment, cocky and arrogant in Garrett’s cabin demanding the release of his men in exchange for Courtney Farrow’s life.

  Garrett!

  The name shocked yet another memory free. In the conversation they had been having before Ballantine interrupted, Davey Dunn had revealed that he suspected Garrett of being the traitor!

  The thought brought Courtney up sharp, her bare feet skidding on a tangle of weeds as she ran clear of the treeline. Ahead of her, awash in shiny iridescence, lay the cove and the two silhouettes of the ships. As she stared at the darkened hulks, her mind continued to reject the notion that Garrett Shaw had betrayed Duncan Farrow. Shaw was ambitious and ruthless. He was cunning and conniving and dangerous in every sense, but he was no Judas.

  And yet, in a terrible way it made sense. Garrett was close to Duncan. He knew the plans for the raids well in advance. Designing an elaborate trap at the bay of Moknine would have been easy. As easy as telling the Americans when and where Snake Island would be vulnerable to attack. Ballantine had said the traitor was known only by a code name. They had all devised code names years ago when they were fighting the French—Duncan, Verart, and Garrett. Garrett had been known as 'the Cobra.' Was that the name the Yankees had come to rely on?

  God, she was tired of it all. She should take Seagram’s advice and find her own way to America. If Duncan was alive, he would go there. She would no longer feel lost and alone. She would feel safe again.

  Find Duncan, Seagram had commanded. The burly giant had known, as Courtney knew, that a fleet of Yankee ships would not have been able to capture and hold Duncan Farrow. And certainly would never have been able to hang him.

  Courtney took a deep breath and turned to look behind her. From her position she could see the glittering swath of the coastline stretching westward. Tangier lay in the west. Casablanca. Marrakech. Her father was well known in all three ports; she would have no trouble booking passage across the Atlantic; merchant ships made the crossing practically every day, and once in America she could—

  A sudden rustling the weeds made her crouch quickly down. The murmur she had thought was the surf turned out to be voices, whispers.

  Risking a peek over the swaying patch of sea oats, she could see where the sand had recently been churned by many footsteps, in a path that led from the shore up into the trees.

  The prisoners! The Americans! They had escaped!

  Courtney shot to her feet but just as she started to run for the shoreline, her arms waving, her voice screaming an alert to the guards, a sudden loud whoosh shattered the tranquillity of the night air. The deck of the Eagle became brilliantly lit as a huge yellow fireball boiled into the night sky, scattering wood and canvas skyward in a shower of flames. Red-hot cinders showered down along the length of the deck to touch on the yards and rigging. They landed on the furled sails and for the most part were smothered to wisps of smoke, but the larger cinders found dry patches and soon burst into more flame. Screams and shouts split the remaining silence wide apart, and like magic, the deck came alive with running men. Most ran for buckets to try to douse the fires that were spreading rapidly to engulf the entire stern. Others noticed the prisoners swimming for shore and, screaming oaths, leaped overboard after them.

  On board the Falconer, the shouts had wakened some of the crew, but when they tried to run up on deck to discover the cause of the commotion, they found the hatches blocked and barred.

  Hardly aware of what she was doing, Courtney stumbled across the beach. The trees behind her were alive with shouts as the Americans urged on the few stragglers who were struggling to reach the shore. Men who had been crouched in the underbrush beside her ran down to the shore to help, and some came so close Courtney had to swerve to avoid running into them.

  Her heart was racing, her thoughts were tumbling so fast it took a full minute for her to realize what had happened. By then, some of Shaw's men had reached shore and were pursuing the escaping Yankees with knives and cutlasses drawn. Less than ten feet away, one of the corsairs was running a boy to ground and with a cry of horror, Courtney recognized Dickie Little, his thin legs faltering as he fought to escape.

  Courtney darted from cover and cut across the sand to intercept the corsair. She reached them just as a hairy hand grabbed Dickie’s arm and yanked him to a painful halt. The pistol the boy had been carrying flew out of his hand and landed in the dirt at Courtney’s feet.

  “Wait!” she cried. “Wait, he is just a boy!”

  The corsair’s fist was raised; the blade of the knife he held glinted blue in the moonlight. He recognized Courtney with a scowl.

  “The little bastard shot me! Look here!”

  He pointed to a graze on his ribs, hardly more than a scratch.

  “He is only a boy. Let him go. If it is blood you want, there are a score of grown men to chase after."

  “Eh?” The corsair’s eyes narrowed to slits, and his hand tightened on the boy’s arm until the wide brown eyes rolled upward and he shivered from the pain. The corsair’s gaze raked along Courtney’s body, and with an evil sneer, he shrugged Dickie aside and took a purposeful step toward her. “Aye, mayhap you are right, li’l mistruss Farrow. Mayhap I should be chasin' after bigger game."

  Courtney bent over and quickly snatched up the pistol Dickie had dropped. It was double- barrelled, double-shotted, but the boy had fired at least one of the charges. Was the other still in the chamber?

  The corsair’s grin widened with confidence as he watched her fumble with the steel pin to set the hammer in full-cock position. Did he already know two shots had been fired? Was the powder dry enough to ignite?

  The corsair’s hands stretched out toward her. A twig snapped in the bushes behind them, and his eyes flicked briefly past her shoulder, giving her just enough time to raise the pistol and pull the trigger.

  ~~

  Miranda’s hand did not waver a hair's breadth as she leveled the heavy pistol at Adrian's head. She had come back down to the lower deck to see what was keeping Otis Falworth, and her surprise at seeing Ballantine at the bottom of the ladderway instead of Falworth, nearly matched the surprise on his face seeing her standing in the shadows with a cocked gun.

  “Well, well,” she murmured. “Lieutenant Ballantine. Out
for an evening stroll, are you? Without chains and without an escort?”

  “I could not sleep,” he said dryly.

  The faint light in the passage outlined his broad shoulders, the soaked condition of his clothes, the damp dishevelment of his hair.

  “Where is Falworth?” she demanded.

  “Dead.”

  She sucked in a breath. “You killed him?”

  It was a question that needed no answer, and she took a cautious step back, out of arm's reach. “He said you were dangerous. He told Shaw we could not afford to let you live.”

  “Shaw should have taken his advice. You should take mine now and get the hell out of here fast. The powder magazine is going to blow any minute.”

  Her eyes flickered briefly behind him, but then narrowed again with suspicion. “Impossible. Shaw has guards posted all around the ship.”

  “Only six, surprisingly enough,” Ballantine said matter-of-factly. “And five of them are dead. Not very smart of Shaw to keep such a light watch.”

  “Apparently not, especially if you are attempting to organize any kind of a foolhardy escape.”

  “Past tense. They are already gone.”

  Miranda was taken aback. "Gone? All of them?"

  “To the last man, and that would be me. I had to tend to some unfinished business."

  “Falworth?”

  “He betrayed his own countrymen," Adrian murmured, conscious of the strong smell of smoke in the companionway. In no time at all the lower deck would be an inferno, the passageway a death trap.

  “I would have thought any unfinished business you had would have involved a certain little bitch. Or have you had your fill of her?” Miranda added sweetly.

  “I am surprised you care what happens to Courtney.”

  “Oh, I care. I care enough to want her out of my life—permanently.”

  “Is that why you were trying to leave the ship with Falworth?”

  “One of the reasons. I figured there was little point in staying now that Shaw has made his choice clear...or did you not know the two of them have sealed their partnership? He was a trifle disappointed to discover she was no longer a virgin, but I gather she was able to make amends. Several times.”

  Ballantine was given no time to react. A sudden volcanic blast from the Eagle’s powder magazine lifted the deck boards under their feet and slammed them both heavily against the bulkhead. Miranda struggled wildly to break free, but Adrian twisted her wrist roughly into the small of her back, wrenching the pistol out of her grasp. Dragging her behind him, he ran two steps ahead of the boiling heat and clouds of smoke, bolting up the ladderway to the gun deck. All around them, men were tumbling out of hammocks, shouting, scrambling in confusion. Behind them, flames were already shooting up the ladderway.

  “We will never get off this ship alive,” Miranda screamed in terror.

  “Another word, madam, and I will make certain one of us surely does not.”

  “Lieutenant Ballantine?”

  Ballantine whirled toward the sound of his name. "MacDonald! What the devil are you doing down here?”

  The burly Scot stepped out of the smoke and haze. He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the fire and the rumblings of new explosions. “This is the only hatch left open an' I were bound to keep it that way. I kenned ye would make for it soon as ye were able."

  “Are all the men safely off?”

  “Aye, all save them what are keepin' the hatch clear. Frankly, sar, they were eager for a fight. These bastards deserved it for what they've done to us, to the Eagle. To the credit o' my marines, after the wounded were helped ashore, nay a single man-jack o' them obeyed the order to stay behind with the others."

  “Well we had best get topside and convince them now, because the Eagle is about to blow apart at the seams.”

  MacDonald glanced over Adrian’s shoulder to where the screams and shouts had taken on a new urgency as a man stumbled across the deck, his clothes on fire, his hair lit up like a torch.

  “Aye sar!” he said and vaulted up the ladderway.

  “Move, if you value your life,” Ballantine snarled into Miranda’s ear, pushing her ahead of him up the steps. Men from the Eagle were positioned at the top, holding captured cutlasses and boarding pikes, forming a defensive ring around the two emerging officers. A surge of screaming corsairs came out of the darkness, swords slashing, muskets spitting spark and shot, knives hacking and slicing at the valiant corps of marines.

  Miranda was more terrified of a wayward cutlass finding its way to her throat than she was of the fires. She groped frantically for the pearl-handled knife at her waist, but it was gone. She kicked her skirt high and reached for the dirk strapped to her thigh, and was rewarded by the warm press of the handle against her palm. She swung it up and slashed at the iron-hard vise around her waist. Ballantine grunted, cursed, then flung her free when he found himself surrounded by a crush of marines and corsairs. He was vaguely aware of pain in his left forearm, but in the next instant, a naval cutlass was pressed into his hand and his thoughts were for nothing else but to use it effectively against the swelling ranks of pirates.

  With Angus by his side, he fought his way to the rails, and together the pair defended the retreat as the handful of marines climbed over and leaped into the cold waters. Twenty yards away, men on board the Falconer were shooting blindly at the swimming figures. The air in the cove was fogged with smoke and drifting ash; cinders continued to drift down on the heads of the men like red snow.

  Ballantine was shouting for the last of his men to abandon the burning ship when he caught the sound of a familiar bellow behind him. Garrett Shaw, shedding sea water in glittering sheets, was charging along the deck, a cutlass raised in one hand, a pistol in the other. The gun was discharged point blank and the empty weapon thrown onto the deck. A second was drawn from the cross belts, aimed and fired, cutting a bloody path across Angus's upper arm before Adrian could push the Scot over the side.

  “Shaw!” Adrian shouted.

  The shaggy black head swivelled to find the source of the shout and with a snarl, he shoved his way toward the rails.

  “Come on, Shaw,” Adrian growled a challenge. “We are evenly matched—or don't you think you can win in a fair fight?”

  Shaw threw the smoking pistol aside and wrenched a boarding pike from one of his men. With fires blazing behind him, he drew his cutlass and advanced on Ballantine, steel glinting in both fists.

  “No one touches this one!” he ordered in roar. “This golden-haired bastard is mine!”

  Adrian deflected the first two enraged swings of the cutlass with an ease that deepened the fury on Shaw’s face. He darted in on a quick thrust, which Shaw countered with a deadly sweep of the pike. Adrian flinched as the iron hooks gouged a deep, splintered gash out of the rail, and narrowly avoided the return sweep as the pike whistled past his ear to shatter a crate to fragments.

  Grasping his own sword in both hands, Adrian cut a swath across Shaw’s shoulder and breastbone before the corsair could regain his balance. A wide stripe of red appeared diagonally across the bronzed flesh; the blood beaded like a crimson necklace before the red pearls broke and spurted down his skin. The pike returned the insult, glancing off Adrian’s shoulder as it screeched into a metal cleat and showered both their heads with sparks.

  Shaw backed away a pace and shook a spray of sweat and sea water from the ragged black mane. He surveyed the damage to his adversary, noting the bloodied shoulder, the hanging, almost useless left arm. Ballantine’s chest was gleaming with sweat and blood, yet there was a cool determination in the flinty gray eyes that set a grin on Shaw’s face.

  “I am going to enjoy cutting your heart out, Yankee. And I am going to enjoy carving it in tiny pieces to feed to the gulls.”

  A roar of laughter sent the handpike carving across the planking at the level of Adrian’s knees. Ballantine chopped at the violent arc and managed to jar the pike from Shaw’s hand. In the same motion he slid the bla
de upward, peeling skin from the corsair’s hand and arm. Shaw spun away, avoiding a follow-through that would have pierced his belly.

  Shaw took a deep breath and lunged. He feigned a dive to the right, and when he saw Adrian brace himself to ward off the expected blow, he swing low and fast to the left. Adrian felt the cold steel punch through his thigh, and he staggered back against the rail. Shaw threw the bloodied sword aside and clawed his hands around Adrian’s throat, squeezing until the muscles and veins bulged in his arms. Adrian’s hands flew up in an effort to dislodge the choking hold, but only his right hand had any strength remaining. His sword had clattered to the deck. His back was bent over the rail so far, the slightest additional pressure would snap his spine in two.

  Shaw’s smile was ferocious, his breath as hot as the flames consuming the masts and rigging overhead. Adrian’s face flushed purple from the strain of the deadlock; his legs trembled with the effort to counter the backwards push.

  Just as Garrett Shaw was removing one hand from around Adrian’s throat, bunching it into a fist, and drawing it back to deal the final blow, Angus MacDonald's drenched, shaggy head appeared above the rail. He took the dirk that was clenched between his teeth and threw it, roaring the MacDonald clan cry as the blade split cleanly through the knuckles of Shaw's clenched fist, splitting through flesh and bone and shattering the wrist.

  Adrian grunted air into his lungs as the pressure at his throat was jolted loose. Shaw fell back, clutching the split halves of his hand. Angus reached up and pulled Adrian over the rail, throwing him bodily into the sea, where he hit the surface with the finesse of a hammer on an anvil. He clung to consciousness long enough to see and feel another tremendous explosion almost lift the Eagle out of the water. But then his senses reeled, the blackness closed in, and he felt himself sinking, spiralling into a cold, soundless void.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Courtney pulled the trigger just as the final, and most devastating explosion sealed the fate of the Eagle. She heard the click of the mainspring as it released the steel pin. There was a delay while the flint sparked and ignited the powder, then a blast as the lead ball was ejected out of the barrel and plowed into its mark, dead centre of the corsair’s furrowed brow. The force of the shot stopped him in mid-stride, the shock of it caused him to stagger back and fall, dead before he hit the ground.