Parting the brush with both hands, she peered at the stretch of beach that curved toward what had once been their camp. Now it was a shambles, canvas tents shredded and poles splintered, provisions scattered haphazardly over the sand or still burning. Thick gray clouds of smoke hung over the beach in billowing shrouds, the wind occasionally blowing it high enough so that she could see the tops of the trees. Her fingers curled tightly around a slender limb as she saw bodies dotting the ground. Nothing had ever prepared her for this, certainly not her sheltered life in London, and not even the brief skirmishes on the open sea when the pirates had taken a ship.
Then, though there had been the reverberating thunder of heavy guns, few ships had dared return fire, and not once had the Sea Tiger’s crew engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Now, she realized just how fortunate she had been not to witness a battle.
Fear clogged her throat, not just for herself but for Kit, Turk, Emily, and Dylan. She thought of crew members who had teased her, or fetched things from the hold for her, always polite, and sometimes asking shy questions that revealed their longing for home and the gentler sex. Her stay aboard the ship had not been all bad.
Rising from her knees, she brushed sand from her hands, palms scraping against her still-damp skirt in an absent motion as she judged her next move. Fighting raged closer to the water now, where boats from the man-o’-war had beached. Men swarmed over them in waves, cutlasses clanging. It looked as if the enemy was attempting to return to their ship, and her hope flared. Perhaps this would end soon.
Her bare feet sank into sand littered with shells and debris as she made her way cautiously through the line of bushes toward the rampart that held one of the Sea Tiger’s cannons. The smell of gunpowder and smoke was sharp and acrid, burning her nose and stinging her eyes. It hung so thickly in the air that she began to cough.
Putting one hand over her mouth to stifle the sound—rather pointless, she thought, as there was so much noise no one could possibly hear her—she fought her way through the bushes toward the rocky foot of the rampart. Limbs snagged her skirt, and she fell once and scraped her knee against a rock half-hidden in the sandy dirt. With the sun rising higher in the sky and giving the beach a hellish cast, the heat began to press down. Beads of sweat trickled down her face and neck, and her damp hair clung to her face. Insects buzzed around her in persistent swarms.
She slapped at a huge insect on her arm and missed. Dreadful creatures. Why had God even made them, when they were so annoying? Sand fleas nipped at her bare feet and legs, making her stop to scratch and mutter more imprecations against the thoughtlessness of Creation.
A strange, whistling sound came from somewhere alarmingly close, and she looked up, stifling a cry when a cannonball landed only a few yards away with a thundering roar. Dirt shot into the air, and she fell to her knees and put her arms over her head as sand rained down in heavy thuds around her. A rock struck her arm, making it bleed, and a scratch on her cheek seemed to attract more insects. She huddled beneath a bush, terrified. For several moments she could hear nothing except a distinct, pulsing crackle in her ears. Panicked, she clapped her hands to test her hearing and still heard nothing.
God, she was deaf . . . what would she do? Sitting back on her heels, she drew a deep breath. Then there was a pop and a faint sizzle, and a muted roar. Relief flooded her as sound surged back in waves. Beyond the bushes, men shouted, and she leaned forward to peer through tangled branches. There was the noise of fighting as pirates pushed their attackers back to the sea. The crippled man-o’-war listed badly, and looked as if it had somehow run aground.
Stumbling to her feet again, she began to run. A sense of urgency filled her, driving her toward the rampart. She wanted to see a familiar face again. Oddly, she felt no desire to flee to the governor’s men. Only a few months ago, she would have thought there would be no question of choosing between pirates and government officials. But now she feared the pirates would leave her behind. Had she been forgotten in all the confusion?
Rocks tore at her palms and bare feet when she began to climb the rampart, intent upon reaching the big gun manned by some of the crew. With the hot sun beating down and the blast of shells around her, Angela focused only upon her goal. It loomed overhead. The ground shook each time the cannon was fired, the heavy boom assaulting her ears. As she drew closer, her ears began to buzz again.
Perhaps that was why she didn’t hear her name called. It was only when a hand grabbed her arm and jerked that she realized anyone was near. Panic-stricken, she twisted, lashing out at the same time. She was screaming, yet she heard nothing. There was a blur of motion and color, but nothing defined into recognizable form until she was finally pinned to the side of the boulder. Sharp rocks pressed painfully into her back, and she writhed in panting fear and fury as someone held her down.
Shifting aside the thick waves of hair that obscured her vision, her assailant peered down at her with a worried frown. She could see Charley Buttons mouth words at her, and knew that he was expressing concern. Slowly, the fear that pumped through her body began to ebb, and she sagged wearily.
After a moment, he seemed to understand that she could not hear him, and some of his tension eased. Angela managed a quivering smile, and he returned it. Stepping back, Mr. Buttons raked a hand through his red hair. It was coated with ash and soot, and black marks streaked the side of his flushed face. He looked distraught.
Pointing at her, he mouthed, “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head and saw his relief. He helped her to her feet, and indicated that she should come with him. More grateful than he probably knew, Angela clung to his arm as he led her up the steep rock, assisting her when she stumbled.
By the time they reached the top, most of her hearing had returned. The big gun sat silent, and crew members scurried to gather necessary ammunition and provisions.
Mr. Buttons paused, one hand still on her arm, and said, “I was sent to find you. We need to hurry. Are you up to it?”
She nodded. “I can manage. Is Emily all right? Where’s Kit?”
“Miss Emily was taken to safety as soon as we received the warning. Captain Saber is quite safe, but concerned about you.” He glanced around, anxiety marking his face as he took a deep breath. “Now we must get you to safety as well. Though it seems as if the Justice is floundering badly, they are determined to take as many prisoners as they can. I would rather face a hangman’s noose than Captain Saber if I allowed anything to happen to you.”
Shivering, she allowed Mr. Buttons to lead her down the steep embankment. Smoke still hung in heavy shrouds over the beach, but the noise of battle had dimmed. Her throat closed as she saw people lying in tangled heaps of clothing and blood on the sandy shores. Moans drifted up from some of them, and she stared in horror when she saw the unmistakable form of a woman sprawled lifelessly in the sand next to another body. She jerked to a halt, her heart pounding.
“Mr. Buttons—” Her throat closed on the words. Emily was the only other woman in camp. Freeing herself from Mr. Buttons’ grasp, she went to kneel beside the woman. Brown hair curled in dirty tangles over the face, and Angela put out a shaking hand to brush it away. No, no, not Emily, with her bright eyes and sweet nature . . . dear God, don’t let it be . . .
Blood smeared her fingertips as Angela pushed away the hair to reveal female features that were almost unrecognizable. Then relief flooded her. Not Emily. Though there was a gaping hole where the nose and mouth had been, she saw enough to know it was not Emily.
Feeling sick, she looked away as Mr. Buttons put a hand on her shoulder. “At least death was swift for her,” he said softly. “It is not always so kind to others.”
Angela’s stunned gaze fell upon the man lying next to the woman, and saw his eyes on her. He was alive, even though the open, brutal wounds on his body should have killed him instantly. One arm had been torn away, and there was a huge slash across his middle. Charred flesh still smoldered. Nausea rose in her throat, and she put a
hand over her mouth.
The man’s lips twisted in a grimace. “Ain’t . . . pretty, is it? At least Kate . . . died . . . quick.”
For a moment, Angela didn’t comprehend. Then it hit her, and her gaze shifted back to the woman. Kate. The girl from the tavern. God. She wouldn’t have known her. It didn’t help to recall that she’d disliked her. She was dead now, and the waste of life seemed so pointless.
“Dane,” Mr. Buttons was saying, “we have to move quickly. I need to get Miss Angela to safety”
Nodding, Dane’s eyes registered his fate. He knew he was dying, and only awaited the end. “Go . . . on,” he wheezed, blood bubbling from his lips and into his beard. “Ain’t . . . nothing . . . you can do for . . . me now”
“No,” Angela said, pulling away as Mr. Buttons pulled her to her feet. “We have to help.” She felt a compulsion to stay, to somehow ease the suffering the pirate must be enduring. But Charley Buttons did not listen to her protests, and resorted to literally dragging her down the beach.
“Listen to me,” he said sharply, exasperation in his features when she still resisted. “There is nothing to be done for that man. And if you persist in delaying, you may very well end up like Kate. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Shocked, and angry at the needless waste of life, Angela snapped, “Perhaps I am not as inured to death as you seem to be, Mr. Buttons!”
He put a hand briefly over his eyes, then looked at her. “One never grows accustomed to death, Miss Angela. But one must still strive to survive. If you will not be sensible, I must be.”
Survival. She remembered Kit once telling her that when faced with death, people would do whatever it took to stay alive. Maybe he was right. It certainly didn’t ease her conscience to think of how blithely she had once announced that death was preferable to dishonor. Faced with the harsh, ugly reality of dying, she realized that he was right. She didn’t want to die like Kate had, nor as the blond pirate was dying, slowly and painfully. She wanted to live, and the fear that had been temporarily replaced with horror made her tremble.
As if sensing her appreciation of their danger, Mr. Buttons said more kindly, “Just trust me to help you. I’ll do my best.”
Angela looked back and saw that Dane was already dead.
She allowed Buttons to pull her across the beach, ignoring the dead and dying, thinking only of reaching safety. She had thought he intended to take her to a shelter in the trees, but instead, he led her to the very edge of the beach. A boat bobbed in the curling surf, and she saw Emily seated on a thwart in the stern, her round face terrified. At her feet, a wooden cage held a squawking Rollo. His wings beat against the slats, red feathers flying.
“Emily. Oh God—you’re alive. Are you all right?”
Stumbling, Angela splashed into the shallows. Water wet the hem of her skirts and reached her knees. She gripped the sides of the boat when Emily held out a hand.
“Oh! Oh, I was so frightened for you, Miss Angela . . .”
The little boat rocked wildly when Emily stood up, and a pirate standing guard barked at her to sit back down or they’d all be in the water. Mr. Buttons came up behind Angela.
“Get in quickly. There’s no time to waste.”
“But where—”
A muffled roar smothered her words and Angela screamed. She heard Mr. Buttons curse, heard the other pirate shouting and Emily crying. Above the din, Rollo screeched obscenities.
Angela turned, watching in horror as a half-dozen uniformed men swarmed toward them brandishing cutlasses and pistols. More shots rang out, and the acrid bite of sulphur filled the air. Everything was a blur; as if seen through leagues of water, Angela saw Mr. Buttons and two other pirates engage the militia in a flurry of steel. She stood in the water, paralyzed with fright and terror as the skirmish surged toward her.
Over the chaos, she heard Emily’s screams rise to a new level. Turning, she saw a man clamber over the side of the boat and reach for Emily. Sunlight glittered from the length of steel in his hand. Without pausing to think, Angela put both hands on the rail of the small boat and put all her weight into it. The craft tilted, catching the man off-balance.
When he scrambled to regain his balance, she pushed again, this time succeeding in tilting the boat. Emily screamed as it capsized and she plunged into the water. She stood up, sputtering and coughing, but Angela had no time to help. Debris from the boat floated around her, and she could see Rollo’s cage bobbing in the waves. She made a grab for it and missed, then realized she had a bigger problem. Their attacker stood up in the water right beside her, coughing and cursing.
Then he saw Angela and lifted his dripping sword with a snarl. “Bloody bitch—d’ye think ye can drown me?”
Angela tried to step back, but the water surging around her knees tangled her skirt between her legs and she went down hard. Jarred by the fall, she tried to scoot back in the chest-high water, fumbling for something to use in defense. The man laughed and lifted his sword higher.
Her hand brushed against an object in the sand, and in desperation, Angela grabbed it from the water. The carved hilt of a sword fit her palm, and she swung it up and out just as the man stepped forward to bring down his sword. A numbing thud sent shock waves down her arm as the sword caught her assailant in the middle. He folded over the blade in a curiously slow motion, his eyes widening with shock.
Releasing the hilt of the sword, Angela fought a wave of revulsion when he fell atop her, one arm flopping limply over her shoulder. She screamed, then screamed again, kicking at him so wildly that water drenched her. His weight pushed her deeper into the sand, so that in a very few moments, waves were washing over her face and filling her nose.
Then Mr. Buttons was there, pushing the dead man off, calmly saying that she’d done well and they must hurry. He lifted her from the water, and Angela saw with shivering horror that there were bloodstains on her dress. The body bobbed in the water, bumping against her legs.
“I must . . . wash,” she murmured, but Mr. Buttons was lifting her and putting her into the righted boat, telling her that there was no time. She huddled next to Emily, who held Rollo’s cage tightly in her lap.
“Get them to the ship,” Mr. Buttons told the pirate at the oars. “I’ll join you as soon as possible.”
Vaguely aware of Emily’s coughing sobs and the very wet Rollo’s sputtering imprecations, Angela huddled in the front of the boat in numb misery. She had killed a man. She had taken another life. She looked down at the brownish stains on her dress. Marks of murder. And it had been so easy. There had been no question of morality, only the driving need to survive. She was, as Kit had once told her, capable of doing anything to live.
It was not a pleasant realization.
Seventeen
Pandemonium reigned aboard the Sea Tiger when Kit boarded with Turk right behind him. Charley Buttons waited at the rail, his face tight with concern.
“We’ve sustained two hits, none serious,” Mr. Buttons announced. “Three of our guns remain on shore, the thirty-four and twenty-four pounder still situated atop the bluffs. As our chief gunner is dead, I’ve taken the liberty of appointing another to take his place, sir.”
“And the women?” Kit snapped. “Did you find Angela?”
“Both are safe.” Mr. Buttons hesitated, then added quickly, “I had a bit of trouble finding her at first, and she suffered a bit of an . . . an upset, but she’s aboard.”
“An upset. What the devil—wasn’t she where I said she’d be?” Kit paused, judging from Mr. Buttons’ face that that was not the case. Well, he didn’t have time to deal with it now. “Good work,” he said instead. “Females are a deuced inconvenience aboard ship, and a bloody disaster in a battle. You did well.”
When he turned, he saw Angela staring at him from behind a bulwark. Her hair and clothes were drenched, and her eyes were a wide, vivid green that bore traces of shock. At her side, Emily sobbed loudly, clutching Rollo’s cage with white-knuckled fingers.
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“Get below,” he said curtly. “Now is not the time for female hysterics.”
“I’ll escort them,” Mr. Buttons offered hastily, and rushed forward to take Angela by one arm and Emily by the other.
“Well done, Mr. Buttons,” Turk said gravely. Immediately, the quartermaster rapped out orders, and men scurried to obey.
Kit turned his attention to urgent matters. With the Justice grounded on a sand bar, they had a chance to escape. Despite their grim situation, however, the crew aboard the grounded ship were still firing lethal volleys at the Sea Tiger. A ball landed much too close, spattering water and wood splinters over the deck.
“Turk,” Kit said, gesturing at the man-o’-war, “I think those gentlemen have too much time on their hands. What do you think our chance is of giving them something else to do other than fire those guns?”
“What did you have in mind?”
Kit smiled. “Fighting fire with—fire.”
At first Turk looked faintly perplexed, then he smiled. He turned to look at the huge ship. “I understand completely.”
“I thought you would.”
It took a very short time to load a small dinghy with two barrels of gunpowder. Lengths of tight rope stretched between the two barrels, with one end set afire. If he had judged right, Kit mused, the barrels should ignite and explode just as the dinghy floated past the Justice. If he erred, it should at least provide a short diversion in which the Sea Tiger might be able to work past the man-o’-war.
“Are all our men aboard?” he asked, watching tensely as the small boat was set afloat in the current. Waves lifted it briefly, taking it closer to the man-o’-war.
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