Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  “Give me yer hand, my dear,” he said, reaching for her stiff fingers.

  “You can dispense with such nonsense where I’m concerned, Captain!” she hissed, her eyes speaking betrayal and a hurt that tore at his heart. He hardened himself to it. Now was not the time.

  “Fasten your arms about my neck,” he commanded, hauling her to her feet and reaching for the rope ladder that was tossed down to them.

  “I’ll do it, but mind I don’t strangle you while I’m about it!”

  But she understood the gravity of their situation and did as she was told. He felt her breasts pressing against his shoulder blades and wondered if she felt the bulge of the pistols, a reminder of what those weapons hidden beneath his coat were really for. He climbed easily. It was a short distance to the deck, and once his booted feet reached it, Sam knew the future was his.

  That the world was his.

  Setting Maria down on the deck, he stepped forward. And as his eyes found and held the captain’s gaze, he saw the cruelty in those pale, watery eyes, the twisted sneer of his mouth and knew that the man had plans of his own—probably for Maria. Behind him, the crew cowered like a pack of beaten dogs.

  As unobtrusively as possible, Sam put Maria behind him. Shilling was eyeing Sam’s fine boots of Spanish leather, the perfectly struck eight-reale that hung against his chest, the emerald ring on his finger that could bring enough money to buy this sloop and ten more like her. The captain’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. The eight-reale was a royal strike, reserved for the aristocracy of Spain (and stolen from the coffers of one of her galleons), and in itself would command a fortune.

  No doubt, Shilling was wondering just how he’d obtained it.

  And just to be sure the man didn’t look too hard, Sam reached beneath his coat, grasped one cold, deadly pistol, and trained it on him.

  Shilling sucked in his breath. “You—you lied!” he snarled, tearing his gaze from the coin to the pistol’s deadly black mouth. “You’re no landsman from Boston!”

  “Right you are, lad. I’m not. But thanks for your offer of assistance. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about who ye invite aboard as a guest.” His genial smile faded, to be replaced with a cold, hard look that the Whydah’s lads would’ve known well. “Now, call forth your men.”

  Eyes blazing, Shilling didn’t move.

  “If I have to repeat myself, ’twill be the pistol that does the talking,” Sam said offhandedly, “and ’twould be a pity to foul the decks with your splattered guts.” Smiling as though he’d find enjoyment in doing just that, he cocked the flintlock and raised it.

  Such tactics of intimidation, one of the very first lessons a pirate learns, rarely failed to bring about the desired results. Staring at the weapon, Shilling croaked out an order to the men clustered in terrified confusion behind him. “Do as the scoundrel asks, you dogs! And make haste! He’s about ready to put a ball through my heart!”

  Uncertainly, several came forward, their eyes wide and fearful. Like frightened sheep they milled about, and Sam wondered just what cruelties this hard master had inflicted upon them to bring their courage to such yellow-livered wretchedness.

  “Ye know,” he said pensively, keeping the pistol trained on Shilling while he raked this simpering crew with a look that made them tremble, “when I was a pirate—a long time ago, mind you, as I’ve since given up such unscrupulous pursuits”—he chuckled, aware of Maria’s glare cutting into his back—“’twas a custom to put a question to the crew of a captured prize.” He seized Shilling’s arm, jabbed the pistol against his ribs, and began to walk among them, looking down with an innocuous smile into each cowering face, every frightened gaze. “We’d go to each man, just like this”—he stopped before a lad who couldn’t have been more than ten years old and met the boy’s terrified gaze—“and ask, ‘What sort of man is your master, now? Is he a good captain, kind and fair and unselfish with rations, pay, and most importantly’”—another chuckle—“‘grog?’” He continued on with measured strides. “Or”—he stopped, staring into the sheepish eyes of another until the seaman’s gaze dropped—“‘Is he a hard man, quick to taste of your back with the cat, to tear the flesh from your spine for the most petty offense?’” He felt Shilling’s arm go rigid beneath his tight grip and smiled. “And now, my lads, I ask the question of you. What manner of man is our friend Shilling, eh?”

  Maria, holding her breath and glaring at the shadow between Sam’s shoulder and the long, muscled calves beneath the flared skirts of his coat, bit back a surge of appreciation for his tactics. He was crafty. Shrewd. He could hardly take over a ship with nothing more than two pistols and a dagger—or so she’d thought. But Sam was a master of persuasiveness. Of intimidation. He was a pirate; he’d been trained by the best, had usurped the best, had become the best. He knew very well what he was about. If he could win over the sloop’s company—and by the way Shilling had obviously treated them, that shouldn’t be too hard—there was nothing to stand in his way.

  But at that moment there was a noise and a flash of color. Whirling, she saw a man vaulting down the companionway ladder and pounding toward them; too late, she saw the raised pistol, the gleaming cutlass in one sun-browned hand.

  “Sam!” she screamed, and then everything happened at once.

  Chapter 16

  Never love unless you can

  Bear with all the faults of man.

  —Campion

  Sam whirled on reflex, and in that brief instant Shilling yanked his rapier from its scabbard and went for his ribs. Maria screamed, a pistol barked behind her, and dazed, she watched as Shilling howled in pain, dropped his sword, and stood clutching his bloodied hand.

  Everyone turned to stare at the slight figure who came forward, no longer running but swaggering as he twirled the smoking pistol by its bronze trigger guard. His umber eyes were dancing, and the deck fell quiet with tense expectation as the men waited to see how the pirate would deal with their newest crew member. But after two days of sailing with him, they should have known better than to think he’d have anything but the first word.

  “Mother o’ God!” he exclaimed. “Why, scald me balls if it ain’t the Cap’n ’imself! I thought you was dead! Last time I saw ye, ye was sprawled flatter than a ten-year-old’s chest. Tried t’ help ye, I did, but a wave caught me an’ threw me by the board. Thought I’d seen the last o’ ye!”

  “We should all be so fortunate,” Maria muttered beneath her breath.

  Sam ignored her. “Stripes.” He grinned. “How the devil did you end up here?”

  “Same as you, I’d wager. Someone up there”—he pointed heavenward—“or down there, more likely, was watchin’ out fer me.” Clearing his throat, he cast a baleful glance at Shilling, who stood clutching his injured hand and glaring at Sam. “Stayed on the Cape fer a bit, then made me way t’ Rhode Island and signed on with this dog a couple o’ days ago. I’m tellin’ ye, Cap’n, had we the crew we once ’ad, they’d’ve worked this one up good. ’E’s a mean one, I tell ye.”

  Shilling erupted in rage, earning him fearful looks from his crew and the threatening stare of Sam’s pistol once more. “You mean to say you’re a pirate too?” And at Stripes’s nod, he snarled, “Damn you, damn both of you! When the authorities hear of this—”

  “The authorities?” Stripes mocked, arms akimbo and coffee-colored brows sliding up his forehead. “Why, I’ll be glad t’ tell ’em everythin’, Cap’n! Oh, don’t look so surprised. I know all about yer little activities. Like the rum ye got hidden in that false hold below, hidden ’cause it’s contraband and ye won’t claim it as cargo. Smugglin’s a crime too, just like piracy! And I know about lots of other things, too. Go ’head, go t’ the authorities if ye like. But I’ll be sittin’ right beside ye, tellin’ ’em everythin’ I know, too!”

  Maria wondered if Shilling was going to have some sort of attack; his face had gone the color of radishes, his throat working like a dying fish. Sam did not share her concern
. Deliberately, he struck a relaxed pose at the rail and leaned against it, keeping his pistol trained on Shilling and watching the men behind him with a thoughtful eye. One of them had already brought Gunner aboard; now, the dog stood among them, bewildered. “Hmm. Smuggling. ’Tis a most hateful trade, eh, Stripes?”

  “Aye, most certainly is, Cap’n. Why, I’ll—”

  “Hateful?” Shilling raged. “You have the damned audacity to stand there and talk about hateful trades when—”

  Wordlessly, Sam pulled the trigger, and a lead ball plowed a groove in the deck two inches from the toe of the older man’s high-tongued shoe. “I,” Sam said blandly, “do not care to see a man interrupted when he’s trying to speak. Please continue, Stripes.”

  Accustomed to his captain’s ways, Stripes went on without missing a beat, unfazed by this display of discipline. “Oh, you ain’t heard all o’ it, Cap’n! I could tell ye stories—”

  “Just how do you know so damned much, anyhow? You’ve only been on this ship for two days!” Shilling snarled, forgetting himself. He leaped backward as Sam casually produced another pistol from beneath his coat.

  “I have me ways,” Stripes said slyly. “Don’t I, Cap’n?”

  “Aye, lad. That ye do. Worst damned busybody I ever laid eyes on.” His gaze swept the crew, taking in the frightened faces, Maria’s uncertainty, the absence of the foppish first mate who’d been standing on deck a short time ago. He turned to Shilling once more. “Where’s that weasel ye had in your confidence? Hastings, I believe his name was.”

  “I don’t know.”

  One of the men detached himself from the crowd. “I’ll tell ye where he is. Belowdecks, probably in the cabin swilling wine and hiding beneath the table. Spineless as a jellyfish, that one is. Supposed to be some high-falutin’ lord or something.”

  “Is that so?” Sam swung his hard stare on Shilling. “And pray tell, what persuaded him to lower himself to serve as mate, eh? The taste of illegal rum?” He dismissed Shilling’s hasty excuses with a wave of the pistol. “Never mind. I grow tired of your lies.” He turned to the seaman who’d spoken. “You, lad. What’s your name?”

  “Flanagan, sir. Billy Flanagan.”

  “Mr. Flanagan, why don’t you and Stripes go below and fetch His Bloody Lordship? We wouldn’t want him to…miss anything.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “You’ll never get away with this,” Shilling snarled. “Never!”

  Sam just laughed and motioned Shilling to the rail. “There’s the ladder. I’m sure, despite your little injury, ye’ll be able to descend it. You have exactly five minutes in which to do just that.”

  “What? This is my ship, damn you—”

  “Sir, wait!” Braver than his peers, another man stepped forward, his balding head sunburned and ringed by a crescent of wispy brown hair. “What are you going to do with our captain?”

  “He’s no longer your captain,” Sam said, “unless you choose to go with him. If not, then ye may address me by that title. Now, which of you faithful pups wants to join old Shilling here, eh?”

  “I’m staying with you!” came a high, boyish voice from the rear of the crowd, and Sam was hard-pressed to contain his grin as he spied that same youngster he’d singled out earlier.

  “There’s one,” he said, his eyes crinkling in amusement. He glanced at the crew. “I believe you all now have four minutes left in which to make your decision before our good man takes his leave.”

  Several men exchanged wary glances and the rest merely looked down at their feet. Silence stretched on, the tension growing thicker and thicker. Finally, the balding one stepped forward. “I’ll not remain with him,” he declared, casting a sullen look at his former captain, “and I think I speak for all of us. As to your question, pirate, allow me to answer it. Shilling is a hard man and a cheat besides. Promised us good wages, but we’ve yet to see them. For a share of that rum and fair treatment, I believe that most of us would be happy to stay on with you.”

  “Fair treatment?” Sam echoed. “Good wages?” He laughed, genuinely amused. “What do ye think I’m going to do, pay ye? There are no wages on a pirate ship, just equal division of everything. The more prizes we take the richer ye’ll get, and that’s all there is to it. And if ye think a pirate captain rules his ship with the hand of a king, then think again. Every man is his own master, free to do as he wishes. Ye want to dice and drink ’til four bells of the mid-watch? Nothing stopping ye. Spend your afternoon in drunken slumber? Go right ahead.” His teeth flashed white in his swarthy face. “Aye, like that, don’t ye? Can’t ask for fairer treatment than that. And as to me, I think ye’ll find”—he glanced at Stripes, who had come up on deck with a frightened Hastings in tow—“that I am indeed a very fair man. Just ask my former crewman here.”

  “Aye, the Cap’n speaks the truth. And not only is ’e fair, but ye’ll find yer pockets lined with gold if ye sail with ’im. He’s the best there is, ye know.”

  “There ye have it.” Unwilling to give them any more time to think about it, Sam called on intimidation once more. Glancing up at the boom of the sloop’s great mainsail, he called out, “Three minutes.”

  “Wait!” It was the balding man again. “There’s nothing to decide. We’ll go with you. Shilling is a mean old bastard, and I’d rather dance the hangman’s jig than spend another day working for him!”

  “Aye, me too,” added Flanagan.

  Sam folded his arms across his chest, smiling. It was all he could do to maintain his cool indifference, especially with Maria glaring at him. “And the rest of you? Are ye with me, or this sniveling dog here?”

  “With you, sir,” one man said, and several others nodded in agreement.

  And then the young boy stepped forward, regarding Sam in wide-eyed awe. “Are you really a pirate, sir? A real, honest-to-goodness pirate?”

  Silence. And in it, Maria’s muttered words of disgust were heard by all. “Yes, he’s a real pirate. Get a good look at him now, before he finds himself dancing at the end of a rope.”

  Sam laughed her comment off with a wink. “These young brides…. Ye know how they are. Takes a while to teach ’em good manners.” He turned his focus on Shilling and became serious once more. “Two minutes.”

  “I’d like to stay too.”

  Hastings stood there in his fine clothes, carefully shined boots, silk stockings, and lace at his throat and wrists. “You?” Sam raised a brow. “Sorry, lad, but ye look like ye haven’t seen a day of work in your life.” He turned to Shilling. “I believe your five minutes are up. Happy sailing, lad. And before ye curse me to hell and beyond, remember this: We went easy on ye, hard master that ye’ve been. But I’m feeling merciful today. Now, off with ye before I change my mind.”

  Hastings was already down the ladder and waiting in the boat. Vowing to see Sam in the hell from whence he’d come, Shilling followed, purposefully delaying as though hoping his crew would come to his rescue. They did not. Sam propped his elbows upon the caprail, leaned his chin into the heels of his hands, and watched him with a wicked smile. “Oh damn, I almost forgot. Mind ye watch that last rung, lad. ’Tis a bit on the slippery side.”

  A curse, a cry, sounds of a body landing in an empty hull. Shilling, humiliated, looked up and saw that the pirate captain had braced a wrist against the rail and was calmly sighting down his arm. The old man let out a strangled scream as the pistol barked, but he was never the target. The tether between the skiff and the sloop parted cleanly beneath Sam’s unfailing aim. From the ship came howls of jeering laughter, and a moment later the sloop was falling off the wind, catching the breeze in her spread of canvas once more.

  She began to move away. The two men in the boat heard the pirate captain’s laughter ringing out over the water. And then, in a final gesture of arrogance, he snatched up Shilling’s rapier and with the rising sun behind him, raised it in mocking salute.

  * * *

  With the wind fresh on her quarter, the sloop glided out o
f Cape Cod Bay, past the port of Provincetown that Sam had tried so desperately to reach just a fortnight ago, and into the chop of the open sea.

  “North by northwest, Mr. Flanagan,” he called to the tawny-haired lad at the helm. The sloop’s jib-boom stabbed far out over the long, foam-flecked waves rolling toward them from the open sea, and Sam thrilled to the feel of spray against his skin, wind against his face and in his hair, once more. He inhaled deeply of the fresh, bracing sea-air. How he had missed the feel of a deck beneath his feet, the song of the wind humming through shrouds and lines, this sense of utter freedom!

  Out here the swells were higher, the wind brisk. With the wind hardening her mainsail and stretching her jib taut, the sloop responded eagerly, causing Sam to wonder just how close she could sail to it. “Put her a point more to larboard,” he added, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

  “Aye, sir!” Flanagan moved the tiller and the sloop responded. Spray hissed through the air but the little ship did not slow her pace, only picking up speed and fighting for more. Sam’s smile widened to a grin of boyish excitement. Lilith? Mary Anne? Whydah, even? They’d all have been helplessly in irons by now, every damned one of them. He threw back his head for the sheer joy of it and let the flying spindrift cool his cheeks. Ah, life was grand! “Let her fall off two points to sta’b’d!” he called, and then, turning reluctantly from the rail, made his way to where the crew had gathered around the mast.

  Stripes was there, standing barefooted atop an overturned barrel and entertaining an audience whose attention—whether because of the fervor with which he spoke or the subject matter itself—he was having no trouble holding. “…and then ’e looked up, just as this blazin’ bolt o’ lightnin’ crackled out o’ the sky, and d’ ye know what ’e said? Why, ’e said ’e was sorry ’e couldn’t run out the guns and return the salute!”