It was his first real command. He would make it count.
Forward, a complement of the frigate’s men, wielding axes and working against time and nature, had finished cutting her jib-boom free of the brig’s rigging and the two ships began to ease apart. Midshipman Walters was overseeing the hasty splicing and replacement of standing rigging and nearby, a carpenter was hard at work patching a hole above the waterline. Hadley had spared him only a dozen men, but it would have to be enough.
He paused next to Walters. “You were brave today in battle, Philip. I will make note of it to Captain Hadley when we return to the frigate.”
“Thank you, sir.” His voice dropped and he glanced around to ensure others were out of earshot. “I was terrified.”
“A normal and healthy response when it comes to self-preservation, laddie,” said McPhee, wryly. “You’ve done a good job clearing the decks of debris, but I’m afraid we’ll have to deal with the dead bodies sooner rather than later. The men, they’re a superstitious lot, especially with a storm off to windward.”
The midshipman nodded.
“Prisoners all secured below, Mr. Walters?”
Of course they were, but McPhee, relishing his first command, was leaving nothing left to chance. The rebel crew, sullen and defeated, had been rounded up and herded below where they would be imprisoned in the dark hold until they got back to England. There, they would be sent to Mill Prison or some other hell hole where they’d spend what was left of their lives wishing they’d met their end here today instead. The brig would be auctioned off to fetch a hefty sum that would line all their pockets, and if the discreet, wolfish gleam in Hadley’s eyes had been anything to go by, the courtship of Lady Nerissa would begin as soon as the captain managed to break through her resentment.
McPhee shook his head. The lady had been through enough, and Hadley hadn’t even had the decency to give her time to sort herself out before trying to impress her. Opportunistic sod, he thought, then put the thought out of his mind. It wouldn’t do to criticize, even in the privacy of his own mind, his commanding officer.
“I need to oversee that new jib before that storm hits,” he said. “In the meantime, Mr. Walters, I’m afraid you’ll have to play undertaker. The men are already uneasy about the dead rolling around in their own blood, and the sooner they’re disposed of, the better. I want their attention on sailing the ship, not imaginary ghosts.”
“Aye, sir.”
Three of those men were nearby, tightening deadeyes on the jury-rigged main shrouds and glancing nervously over their shoulders as if expecting the dead to rise up and murder them. “You, there!” said Walters importantly, aware of McPhee beside him. “Smith, Bates and Dobson! Come with us. We need to dispose of the dead.”
The three men knuckled their forelocks to this youngster who was half their age but better bred than they could ever hope to be, and went to the nearest corpse, a pigtailed rebel with receding blond hair whose considerable girth was stuffed into a tightly buttoned waistcoat. His eyes were open and staring, and they remained so as Walters ordered the seamen to pick him up, walk him to the side, and throw him over into the embrace of Davy Jones.
“See ye in hell, you blasted rebel,” muttered Bates in the expectant silence before his words were punctuated by a splash below.
Above, an uneasy wind began to move through severed and intact standing rigging, tickling the British colors now flying from the brig’s gaff.
“Make haste,” McPhee said tensely, looking impatiently forward where a small crew was fighting against time to get the new jib strung.
“Think she’s seaworthy, sir?”
“She’ll do. Get rid of that next body. We haven’t all day to sit here and discuss the weather.”
“Aye, sir. Put up a good fight, those Yankees did.”
“Aye, at least they stayed and slugged it out with us, which is more than can be said for those cowardly Frenchmen. You three finish up here. I need to oversee that jib before the squall hits.”
Lieutenant McPhee moved off, picking up his pace as he cast a worried glance off to the west. Walters, looking unhappy about this unpleasant task to which he’d been assigned when his visions of glory as the acting second-in-command surely spelled something far different, led the way to the next corpse, its arm nearly severed at the elbow and blood congealing around the gaping mouth.
Bates, a big burly topman who wasn’t afraid of the devil himself, took off his cap. “This un’s one of our’n, boys. Poor ol’ Joe Ames, by the look of him.”
Walters averted his gaze from the bloodied mouth. “Wrap him in sailcloth and lay him under the gunwale. He can get a proper burial once we’re back in England.”
The wind was strengthening and the day began to go darker by degrees. Ames was quickly swathed in sailcloth, dragged beneath the shelter of the gunwale, and left behind.
They moved on to the next body.
“Well now, this ’un sure ain’t one of ours,” muttered Bates, gazing down at the remains of Ruaidri O’ Devir in awed fascination.
His two shipmates joined him. “Aye, hard to believe he had all of England afraid they’d be the next one to be kidnapped. A regular John Paul Jones, eh?
“Don’t look like much of a threat, now,” said Bates, and drawing back his foot, kicked the body, hard, in the ribs. “That’s for what ye did to the fair Lady Nerissa, you piece of shit.”
A groan of pain came from the dead man and with an expletive Bates jumped back.
“Jay-zus, Oi thought ’e was supposed to be dead!”
“Nearly shit your pants, did ye?” said Smith, laughing.
Walters had gone white. “Sure looked it.”
Bates, embarrassed, recovered his swagger. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, for tellin’ ye how to do your job, but Oi think ye should put a bullet in ’is skull and finish him off. After what we all saw him do to that fine lady a few days back it’s no less than ’e deserves.”
Walters, not quite thirteen and easily influenced by the suggestion of an older man even if he was just a seaman, puffed himself up and reached for the pistol in his belt. “A fine idea, Bates,” he said importantly. He checked the flint, cocked the pistol, and lowering his arm, took aim on the back of the dark head.
“Don’t do it, sir,” said Smith, gently pushing the midshipman’s arm away so that the pistol pointed harmlessly at the deck. “Not without Mr. McPhee’s permission. He might not take kindly to it.”
Bates, enjoying his stab at authority, was not to be deterred. “You pillock, what are ye, daft in the head? Don’t listen to him, Mr. Walters. Don’t ye remember what this bastard did to our lady? Don’t ye remember how ’e struck her down right in front of our eyes? He don’t deserve mercy.” He spat on the Irishman’s back and kicked him again. “Shit, if Oi had a knife on me Oi’d cut his balls off myself, listen to him scream, then put a bullet in ’is brain. Nobody harms our fine English ladies, ’specially some filthy boglander dog like this one.”
The kicks had roused O’ Devir. At their feet, he was trying to push himself up, swaying and trying desperately to keep his balance; he managed to raise himself up on one hand before he passed out and fell, rolling onto his back and lying still once more.
“Go get Lieutenant McPhee,” said Smith to Midshipman Walters, trying to protect the young officer from what could potentially be a court martial. “He’ll want to know about this.”
Walters began to leave, glanced at Bates’ florid, bullying face, and thought better of it. “I will stay here with the prisoner. Bates, you go and get Mr. McPhee. Now.”
Moments later, Lieutenant McPhee was hurrying aft, Bates lumbering along next to him.
“What is this? He’s alive?”
“Aye, sir,” said Walters. “Bates kicked him in the side and he groaned.”
“What?”
“Aye, sir, watch, Oi’ll show ye—”
“There is no need for that, Bates,” snapped McPhee, his own foot flashing out to stay the
seaman’s before it could connect with the defenseless man’s ribs. “Have you no mercy or common decency?”
“None, sir,” said Bates, smiling and folding his arms. “Told the lad to put a bullet in the rascal’s head and give justice to the young lady, Oi did. Wish ’e’d had the stomach to do so, after what this Irish maggot did to poor Lady Nerissa.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right, Bates, and we are not such savages in the Royal Navy.” McPhee knelt down, turned O’ Devir’s lolling head toward them with a hand on his jaw, and pushed up an eyelid.
“He’s dead, sir,” said Dobson, finally speaking.
“He’s not dead, we all saw him moving!”
“Well, if ’e wasn’t dead then, ’e sure as shit is now,” said Bates, “In fact—”
“Shut up, Bates,” snapped McPhee, his eyes angry as he looked up at the bully. He let O’ Devir’s eye slide shut. “Just shut the hell up, would you?”
Others were leaving their assigned tasks and gathering around, murmuring in excitement as they looked down at Lieutenant McPhee and the dead man they’d all been sent to apprehend.
McPhee, frowning, picked up the man’s wrist. He lay a thumb against its inner surface, feeling for a pulse.
“Can’t see how ’e can be alive, sir. Bleedin’ from ’is leg like a slaughtered pig, ’e is.”
Smith stood looking down at them. “Or was. Looks like some poor bloke thought he could save him with a makeshift tourniquet. What is that, someone’s stock?”
“Don’t know, too much blood and I ain’t untyin’ it.”
McPhee, his face grim, quietly laid the Irishman’s wrist over his chest. “He’s alive indeed. And that bleeding must be stopped or he will be dead, within the hour unless I miss my guess.”
“Thought you all wanted him dead.”
“Captain Hadley wants him dead. But I suspect he’d be just as happy to keep him alive until he can get him to England, take credit for his capture, and present him to the Duke of Blackheath on a silver platter.”
“We’re the Royal Navy. We could kill ’im now and ain’t nobody would ever know,” Bates persisted.
“I would not take that honor away from the Duke of Blackheath,” murmured McPhee, rising to his feet. “She’s his sister to avenge, not ours.”
“Aye, pity the poor bloke who has to deal with that devil. O’ Devir’ll wish we’d killed him now.”
Laughter.
“Cease your damned prattle,” McPhee said, raising his head to watch the men forward, still wrestling with the jib. “Nobody’s killing anyone. Mr. Walters, have your men take him below, find the Yankee surgeon if they have one, and have him do what he can to save this man’s life.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And see to the rest of the dead. That storm will be on us within a half-hour. I want us out of here and away from a lee shore. We have no time to lose.”
McPhee moved off, leaving Walters in dubious command once more.
At their feet O’ Devir was struggling once more to regain consciousness, his eyes opening to regard the darkening sky above with blank confusion.
“Where…where is she?” he murmured, eyes rolling in pain.
“Who?”
“An bhean… The lady….”
Walters cleared his throat. “She’s—”
“Ye rotten bastard, ye had yer way with ’er and now ye want to know where she is?” Bates puffed himself up, thinking how good it would feel to kill such an obvious menace to society in general and British ladies in particular. “Ye’re a piece of shit, O’ Devir,” he said, bending down, “and Oi’m gonna enjoy seeing ye hang.”
The Irishman managed to raise his head. “Nerissa….”
“Ye’re not fit to speak her name, ye buggering piece of offal,” Bates snarled, and before Walters could intervene, he grabbed the rebel by a fistful of hair and in one brutal motion, slammed his skull down hard against the deck. O’ Devir went lifeless once more, and in disgust, Bates let him drop to the deck with an ugly thump just as the first drops of rain began to spatter all around them.
Walters stood there, open-mouthed and blinking.
Bates turned on him. “Shall Oi throw him overboard now, sir?”
Stunned by such a display of savagery, trying to regain his usurped authority, Walters shook his head. “No. You, Bates…go see to the rest of the dead. Smith and Dobson, help me get him down to his surgeon. And bring your pistols just in case those rebels down there try anything.”
He cast a nervous glance forward. McPhee’s back was turned and he was motioning angrily to the men fighting to get the new jib strung. He hadn’t seen, thank God, what had just taken place. Bending, Walters himself slid his hands beneath the Irishman’s shoulders, lifted his upper body, locked his arms around his chest and stood, his arms groaning under the man’s dead, muscled weight as Dobson and Smith hoisted up the torso and bloody legs. O’ Devir’s dark head pitched forward onto his chest, his arms swinging as the three made their way toward the hatch.
Pray God you didn’t just kill him, Bates, thought Walters on a note of panic.
McPhee’s wrath would be bad enough.
He didn’t even want to consider Hadley’s.
Chapter 21
Why, oh why, am I crying?
Nerissa, still clad in Midshipman Cranton’s uniform, sat on the cot in what had been Ruaidri O’ Devir’s cabin, overcome by exhaustion, confusion, awful memories of what she had seen above, and yes, grief.
She reached out and placed a palm over the wool blanket that covered the bed. Images of the recklessly brave Irishman rose in her mind. His bold black brows, his outrageously long lashes, his hard mouth and equally hard features. I did not know him, really. He made me laugh and he showed me pleasures I did not know existed, but that was all. He kidnapped me. He might have hurt Andrew. She felt a fresh wave of hot, salty tears welling up in her eyes, tumbling down her cheeks. He meant nothing to me, really. So why am I crying?
Because you loved him, said a little voice inside her head.
Rubbish. Or was it? How could she love a man she’d only met a few days before? A man who was ill-suited to her, unacceptably so, really. A man who carried secrets, who was Irish Catholic, who claimed captaincy in a non-existent navy in a non-existent “country.”
A man who was brave enough to leap into the sea to save one of his own, bold enough to make an outrageous demand of the most powerful country in the world, unconcerned enough to laugh at the idea of Lucien catching up to and killing him, thoughtful and kind enough to catch and cook her a fish.
A man who had made both her heart and her body come wonderfully, vibrantly alive.
A man.
A real man.
And you’re surprised you’re crying?
Beyond the salt-glazed stern windows she could see dark, ugly clouds moving toward them. The brig was already feeling it, her motion increasing as she took the building swells on her larboard quarter. Nerissa wondered if those hungry waves had already received Captain O’ Devir’s body. He would want that, she thought, on a fresh wave of tears. There was at least some dignity to it. The idea of him being brought back to England only to be scorned, laughed at, probably dissected by doctors in training and finally, to be hung in a cage at the mark of high tide to deter other would-be pirates was too much to bear. Did they even still do that?
What did it matter.
You were a good man, Ruaidri O’ Devir, she whispered. And true to his word, he had left her maidenhead intact, saving her for a husband she knew in her heart that she would never take.
You were a good man, Ruaidri O’ Devir, and you left me with a beautiful memory that no one will ever be able to steal from me. And yes I’m crying, and these tears are for you because I did, I see now, start to love you.
A knock sounded on the door. “Nerissa?”
She dried her eyes on her sleeve, ran fingers through her hair, and went toward the door. But really, there was no use trying to hide her feelings fr
om Andrew. They had always been close. He would understand.
“I came to check on you,” he said, moving into the cabin. “You all right?”
“No, I am not,” she said, “and you of all people should know it.”
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Hadley’s intending to court me, isn’t he?”
“Damned if I know, but Lucien would never allow it so don’t waste a moment’s worry on it. No, Nerissa, that’s not I came down here to tell you.”
She went back to the cot and sat heavily down. “Oh, out with it, Andrew. I’m too tired and too upset to play games.”
He came and sat beside her. Took a deep, bracing sigh and took her hand. “That villain who caused all this, Ruaidri O’ Devir—I have no wish to upset you even more, Nerissa, but…he’s alive.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
She stared at him, blinking, her mouth agape. Then her lip began to tremble, her body to shake, and the tears flowed down her cheeks in fresh abandon.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “He looked to be dead….”
“Yes, well, rats, cockroaches and parasites are also hard to kill, aren’t they?”
She looked over at him, her eyes suddenly flashing. “How dare you say such an awful thing!”
“What?”
“You heard me!”
He stared at her, saw the anger in her eyes and suddenly it dawned on him why she’d been crying. The truth hit him like a punch to the stomach. “Oh, damn it all,” he muttered in disgust. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That you were in love with him. For God’s sake, Nerissa, what is the matter with you? You’ve always been a bit on the wayward side, but this really takes the cake.”
She rounded on him. “None of us get to choose whom we fall in love with, Andrew, and you of all people should know that. You might’ve married someone of your own station, but Charles and Gareth certainly did not, and that doesn’t make their love for their wives any less valid or our sisters-in-law any less worthy just because they’re not of blue blood!”
The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) Page 20
