The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  The officer instinctively addressed Nathan, and pulled himself together for the makings of a salute. “Lieutenant John Beck, His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

  “What ship?” Crisp asked.

  “The Argus, under the former command of Captain Angus Macleod, God rest his soul.”

  “Might we ask what ye did to piss off the Spaniard?”

  Beck’s nostrils flared with indignation. “We did nothing, sir. We are a courier ship, bound for New Providence; we carry a minimum of cargo. We did absolutely nothing to invite their interest or provoke their attack. We came through the storm and she was there, riding the edge of the horizon. She saw us and gave chase, then the next thing we knew …” He tensed and wiped at a persistent trickle of blood that was flowing over his eye. When he blinked it clear, he studied Crisp’s casual canvas trousers, the loose white shirt and double leather bandoliers that held an assortment of pistols and knives. “Might we venture to surmise you are not in the king’s service, sir?”

  “Ye might venture it, aye. But if ye’re thinkin’ our cap’n flies the jolie rouge, ye’d be mistaken again, for a pyrate would have let the Spaniard sink ye, then moved in to pick over the bones.”

  The words were hardly reassuring but Beck was gracious nonetheless. “I should like to take this opportunity to extend the heartfelt gratitude of myself and the crew, and indeed the crown, for coming forth against such odds and at such terrible risk to the safety of your own ship and crew. I stand humbled and in awe of your captain, whom I sincerely hope I shall have the honor of meeting forthwith.”

  Crisp shifted the wad of tobacco he was chewing from one cheek to the other. “Ye can have the honor now, if ye like. Lieutenant … Beck, was it?” He gave a half turn and held a hand out toward Juliet. “Cap’n Dante.”

  Beck’s gaze seemed to take a moment to shift from Crisp to the tall slender figure standing beside him. Dark reddish hair was gathered back into a thick plait and covered by a blue bandana. The face beneath was streaked with grime, and a shirt that had once been white was stained with blood and black powder. Wide leather crossbelts slung over the shoulders housed an arsenal of pistols, daggers, pouches for powder and shot, and while the shirt was loose-fitting and could have hidden anything beneath, the breeches were moleskin and molded snugly to hips and legs that were suddenly all too obviously feminine.

  “Good God, sir. You’re a woman.”

  “The last time I looked, aye, I was,” Juliet said, reserving her smile.

  “A female captain? Of a privateer?”

  Juliet crossed her arms over her chest and responded to the redundancies with a fine Dante glare.

  Beck swallowed his astonishment and drew himself sharply to attention. “First Lieutenant Jonathan Grenville Beck, His Majesty’s Royal Navy. At your service, Captain Dan … Dan …” His chin came trembling down as his jaw gaped again. “… Dante?” he whispered. “Surely not … the Black Swan?”

  Juliet blew out a wry sigh and glanced at Crisp. “Really, this is too much. First I am mistaken for an iron rose, now a black swan. Are my features truly so vague and obscure?”

  Nathan Crisp cocked an eyebrow. “Ye would benefit from a good scrub, aye.”

  “Please,” Beck interjected. “I … I meant no offense. Isabeau Dante’s name is well known throughout the fleet. Indeed, it is almost as legendary as that of—” He stopped again, but there was apparently not enough strength left in his body to absorb this most final and overwhelming shock. “You … would not happen to be any relation to the privateer, Simon Dante … would you?”

  He almost looked as though he wished she would answer in the negative, but of course, that was not possible.

  “He is my father.”

  “Your … ? Oh … my … good … God.”

  The lieutenant swayed through a rush of light-headedness as all the blood appeared to drain out of his face. Crisp clapped him stoutly on the shoulder. “Bah, she isn’t half so frightening as all that, lad. Leastwise not unless ye prick her temper. Many a man on board the Rose can show ye the blisters to swear to that.”

  Over a frosty glare intended to curb Crisp’s humor, Juliet indicated the deck with a tilt of her head. “You should see to your men, Mr. Beck. Your ship is sinking and they need to be removed from the Argus at once.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Wh-what are your intentions toward the crew of the galleon?”

  “Do you care?”

  The undamaged half of Beck’s face tightened beneath the oily sheen of sweat and filth as he cast a slow glance around the broken ruin of the Argus. “They attacked without provocation and would have sunk us without qualm. Do I care what becomes of them? No. At this precise moment, God save me but no.”

  “Then get about your duties, Lieutenant, and leave the troublesome details to us.”

  He held Juliet’s unwavering gaze for another moment, then offered a stiffly executed bow before leaving to supervise his crew.

  Juliet watched him limp away, then pursed her lips and murmured thoughtfully, “A courier? What on earth would an English courier ship be doing in these waters?”

  Crisp was already moving in the direction of the stern cabins. “His Majesty’s officers are almost as meticulous as the Spanish in keeping good accounts of where they have been an’ where they are bound. I’ll see to any dispatches an’ charts; you get yerself back over to the Rose.”

  He vanished into the wall of belching smoke and Juliet was taking a last look around when an incongruous splash of color caught her eye. Two bodies were tangled together in the midst of the blackened ruins near the base of the mainmast. The uppermost one was wearing a violet doublet and lying beside him was the cavalier’s hat that had been so gallantly tipped by way of a salute on board the Spaniard.

  Juliet had almost forgotten about the champion who had come to her aid in the heat of battle. He looked dead and she guessed he had been caught in the blast that had destroyed the ship’s magazine, for everything else around him was smoldering, scorched by the force of the exploding gunpowder. Patches of charred velvet smoked across his shoulders and buttocks. He had a lump the size of a gull’s egg at the back of his skull, and a thin thread of blood was leaking from his ear from the concussion. The splendid fan of plumes on his hat had been reduced to burned and bristled shafts, while the exquisitely jeweled dagger she had last seen clutched in his hand lay several feet away, glittering brightly against the rubble.

  He was sprawled facedown, his arms spread wide like a crucifix. Above his shoulders—which were impressively wide for a man who chose to wear purple velvet—his features were obscured by the tumbled waves of long chestnut hair. But his clothes were very fine indeed. The peasecod doublet was trimmed in gold braid, emphasizing the high waist in back and, if memory served, the deep vee in front. The sleeves were fitted, with a rolled band at the shoulder embroidered with gold stripes. Legs that were long and well formed were clad in trunk hose padded to a bell shape, worn over silk stockings that would have been the envy of a king.

  Juliet’s gaze returned to the dagger. It was as rich a trophy as any she had taken in a year’s worth of plunder and she had to think it would be a shame not to have some memento of this stranger’s courageous death.

  She stepped over a broken spar and was reaching down to collect the dagger when a hand shot out and grabbed her around the wrist.

  The Samaritan was not dead after all. He was very much alive and glaring up at her.

  “Is it your habit, boy, to rob the men who save your life?”

  She balled her fist and attempted to pull it free. “I thought you were dead.”

  He held fast to her wrist and gave his head a small shake to clear his wits. If the blood leaking from his ear was any indication, he was likely hearing a chorus of ringing bells, and the only thing he accomplished by shaking his head was to scatter a few droplets of red across the deck.

  “Jesus God!” His fingers sprang open, releasing her. They rose to gingerly probe the lump at the back
of his skull and he groaned again.

  The sound was echoed by the body crushed beneath him.

  “Beacom?” A violet-clad arm lifted to see what was beneath. “Good God, man, what are you doing under there?”

  “Waiting for you to rouse, your grace,” came the gasped reply. “Hoping that in your boundless compassion, you might even be willing to heave off me!”

  “I would be more than happy to oblige,” his grace said, “just as soon as I can coax my limbs to work again. You there, lad. Stop gawking at the bauble on my dagger—consider it lost to you now anyway—and lend us your assistance here.”

  Juliet arched an eyebrow and glanced to either side, but there was no one else close by. Ignoring the hand he extended, she straddled a leg on either side of his narrow hips instead and, taking up fistfuls of charred velvet, hoisted his upper body and held him while the man pinned underneath him wriggled free.

  When the deed was accomplished, Juliet dropped him unceremoniously back to the deck while Beacom, who had his back turned and was dusting the soot and grime off his clothes, paused to flutter his hands in gratitude.

  “Oh, I thank you, good sir. I thank you so very much indeed. My lord his grace the duke has been most uncooperative in answering my many attempts to waken him and I began to fear I might die for lack of air before anyone came to our rescue.”

  Contrasting the colorful garments his master wore, Beacom was dressed head to toe in somber, fastidious black. He had a long, bony face to match the long bony body, and his teeth, when he spoke, clicked together like castanets.

  “I am roused now,” said the duke, swaying to his knees. “Give me a hand, damn you Beacom.”

  Juliet watched, somewhat bemused, as Beacom paused in the act of straightening his shortcoat. A cry, not unlike the squawk of a pinched chicken, saw him whirl around and bend to assist his master, who appeared to be on the verge of careening nose down onto the deck again.

  “Your limbs, my lord. Are they sound?”

  “Sound as a newborn babe’s,” the duke muttered. “It is the deck that is spinning like a bloody dervish.”

  Beacom looked hardly strong enough for the task, but he managed with a great deal of grunting, pulling, and straining to haul his master to his feet. As soon as he was able to stand unassisted, Beacom gingerly probed the scorched layers of velvet and lace to search for injuries.

  Juliet was more intrigued by the duke himself, for apart from her father, who had been awarded a knighthood by Queen Elizabeth, he was the first member of the English nobility she had encountered. His face, when he pushed the lanky strands of hair out of the way, was neither pointy nor vapid, as she expected it to be. The nose was long and regal, the eyes deep-set and shielded by lashes the same gleaming chestnut as his hair. His eyebrows were full and straight, meeting almost in the middle. A slender moustache marked a perfect line along his upper lip, while the neatly trimmed imperial elongated the squareness of his jaw. She remembered seeing a full rack of even white teeth—a rarity among seafaring men—and although his mouth was compressed now against the pain and dizziness, a smile that had been somewhat breathtaking.

  Despite the lace at his throat and cuffs, the silk stockings and padded trunk hose, he had also wielded an extremely fine sword, one that did not hang about his hips solely for decoration or pomp. It was lying on the deck a few feet away and while Juliet went to retrieve it, Beacom continued to fuss and fret.

  “There would appear to be no serious perforations, my lord. It is probably to your good account that you were not a step or two closer to the middle of the vessel.”

  The duke scowled his way through another stab of pain. “You will forgive me, Beacom, if I wait for these devils to stop dancing in my head before I celebrate?”

  “I should not wait too long,” Juliet said as she handed Beacom the sword as well as the jeweled dagger. “The pair of you would be wise to haul yourselves over the rail before the Argus takes on too much more water. Will you be able to manage him on your own?” she asked Beacom. “Or do you need help?”

  The pinched nostrils flared. “I am quite capable of guiding his grace to safety. We will, however, require assistance with our belongings. If you can spare another moment, young man, there will be a coin in it for you.”

  “A coin?” Juliet rounded her eyes. “Gold or silver?”

  “More than you’ll earn by standing here and—”

  Beacom’s words were cut short on another squawk as the ship listed suddenly. The Argus settled deeper in the bows, sending the manservant and his burden staggering sideways against the base of the mast. From somewhere in the bowels of the ship came the sound of straining, popping timbers and a roar not unlike a monster rising up from the deep. Men bounded up the ladderways, including Nathan Crisp, who was soaked to the neck with seawater, enveloped in a huge cloud of steam that boiled out of the hatchway behind him. He carried charts and maps and a thick ledger bound in leather, tied with a red ribband.

  “There’s a hole as big as Lucifer’s arse in the hull where the powder barrels blew out,” he shouted. “Her back is broken. A minute or two, no more, an’ she won’t be able to keep her head up. We’d best cut loose or she’ll drag the Spanish bitch down with her.”

  Juliet turned to Beacom. “You are certainly free to swim below and squander your life fetching milord’s silver shaving cup if you like, but if I were you, I would hasten over the side now.”

  “Well, I …” The beginnings of what might have been an instinctive protest died on a startled gasp as the Argus rolled and wailed again. A flurry of chopping sounds could be heard as men began to take axes to the grappling lines to cut her free, each strained rope giving off a sharp ping as it snapped apart. “Yes. Yes, of course. To the side. At once. Come, milord. Milord—!”

  The duke was still leaning up against the broken mast. His eyes were open and although they were fixed on Juliet with a kind of puzzled confusion, his jaw had gone slack and his body was starting to slide down the smooth wood.

  Juliet cursed and slung his free arm around her shoulder. Hoisting the deadweight between them, she and Beacom dragged the barely conscious duke to the side of the ship where members of the Iron Rose’s crew stood on lengths of heavy cargo netting to help heave the survivors up and over the rail onto the Santo Domingo.

  Swirling green water churned no more than ten feet below the level of the English carrack’s deck but Juliet waited until the last possible moment before she gave the signal for the final tethering lines to be chopped. With one arm looped through the cables, she hung on as the galleon rolled free and righted herself. Cut adrift, the drowning frigate struggled to remain afloat through the surging backwash of waves but it was no use. In less than a minute, with the surface of the water bubbling and hissing, and with the weak cries of the men who could not be saved echoing across the distance, the Argus went down by the stern, leaving a wide circle of broken spars and burning canvas scraps to mark her demise.

  Chapter Two

  Juliet wasted little time or energy on niceties. The Spanish prisoners were bound together by wrist and ankle. There were well over three hundred captives crammed on two decks and even though they had surrendered their ship and waited in dazed clusters to hear their fate, they outnumbered the combined crew of the Iron Rose and survivors of the Argus by more than two to one.

  Juliet’s first priority was to ensure there were no hidden pockets of Spaniards burrowed below on any of the decks. Ten enterprising soldiers with muskets could undo the day’s efforts and turn defeat into victory. She dispatched armed parties to scour each of the four decks, rooting out another score of men to add to the crush on deck.

  Nathan Crisp led one such party to search the cargo bays and what he found there caused him to swallow his cud of tobacco whole. There were storerooms filled with crates of silver bars, all bearing the stamp of the mint in Vera Cruz. Four huge barrels contained pearls the size of a man’s thumbnail. There were sacks of uncut emeralds from Cartagena, chests o
f gold from the mines in Peru, bales of spices and rubber in such quantities that the initial euphoria Juliet and Nathan felt upon opening door after door turned to consternation for it would take days to transfer all the treasure to the Rose. Even then, it was likely the privateer would sink under half the burden.

  While it was not unusual for warships to carry treasure, it was definitely curious that a ship with the firepower and reputation of the Santo Domingo should be weighted so heavily with cargo. It implied she was going to be sent back to Spain with the September plate fleet. Twice yearly, in spring and fall, fleets of galleons loaded with treasure rendezvoused in Havana. They came from Vera Cruz in Mexico, from Nombre de Dios in Panama, from Maracaibo, Cartagena, and Barranquilla along the northern coast of Peru and Colombia. The trading vessels went from port to port along the Spanish Main, circling the vast gulf, touching on the islands of the Antilles and Caribbean until they arrived back in Havana, where they gathered into a single fleet to make the journey back to Spain.

  In Havana, they were met by an armada of warships that did not winter over in the New World with the trading ships, but were there strictly to act as escorts to the treasure ships on their voyages back and forth across the Atlantic. In April and again in September, the armada de la guardia would deliver a new fleet to Havana and collect the ships that had spent the winter or summer filling their holds with treasure, then escort them back across the Atlantic to Spain.

  Whatever stroke of luck or fate had put the Santo Domingo in Juliet’s path, she was not about to lose either the ship or the immense treasure she carried. It was imperative, therefore, to off-load the Spanish crew as soon as possible and vacate these waters before any other curious ships happened by. Once the galleon’s capture became known, word would spread through the islands like a fever, increasing patrols and raising the already staggering reward placed on the head of any privateer who bore the name Dante.