Again she saw Mama, lying in bed with her eyes, once as deep a violet as her children’s, faded like a piece of fabric left out in the sun for too long. She’d been dying—but then, Deirdre figured she’d been dying ever since the English lieutenant had come with the press gang and taken Roddy away from them. I’ll find that scoundrel, Mama, she’d promised as she’d held her mother’s small hand and felt the life fading out of her. By all that's holy, I’ll find him and kill him, destroy him like he did you and Roddy . . .
She had gone, first, to London to enlist her cousin’s help, only to learn that Brendan, a captain in the Royal Navy, had been sent to the American port of Boston. He and his younger sister, Eveleen, were all the family Deirdre had left—and Brendan with his naval connections was her only hope of finding Roddy. She would follow him to America, then . . . even if the thought of crossing the stormy Atlantic terrified her.
Again she reached up to touch the heavy cross that hung from a chain of beaten gold around her neck. It had belonged to her ancestress, the formidable Irish pirate queen Granuaile, known to the English as Grace O’Malley. Granuaile had lived during the time of Queen Elizabeth, and the cross had come down to Deirdre through her mother’s people. To her, it not only symbolized her beloved homeland—it was her homeland.
“Ye ready there, mate?”
The old seaman was waiting for her, reaching up a gnarled hand to help her down into the boat. For a moment Deirdre hesitated, the wind blowing cold and lonely off the Solent and dragging a shiver of apprehension down her spine. But then she felt the reassuring presence of her canvas bag, the neck of which was clenched in her hand, and courage infused her again. As long as she had her precious bits of home with her, she would never be alone. No matter where she went, no matter what lay ahead, they would always be with her, to sustain her, to strengthen her, to remind her of who she was.
And what she was setting out to do.
One month ago, Deirdre had made a vow to her dying mama to find Roddy and bring him home to Ireland. Thirteen years ago she had made a vow to herself to find and kill the fair-haired English lieutenant who had stolen him from them.
And now the time had come to fulfill those vows.
Sustained by purpose, she crouched down and allowed the old seaman to help her into the boat. She sat clutching the boat’s damp gunwale, staring out at the countless lighters, barges, and ships of every size and shape that clogged Portsmouth Harbor and, beyond it, the white-ruffled anchorage of Spithead.
And then her gaze found the frigate.
A seaman would have immediately noted the differences that set her apart from her neighbors. She was a warship, designed for striking hard and fast, a far cry from the bluff-bowed, tub-bodied vessels that surrounded her. A seaman’s trained eye would have admired the sleek lines that marked her as a fighter, the clean rake of her masts, the efficient and businesslike design of her hull, the row of gunports that ran along her sides. But Deirdre was oblivious of such details, for to her, the ship would serve only one purpose—and that was to take her to Boston and Brendan’s help.
The mist had parted, leaving low-hanging clouds rolling across the leaden sky like giant white balls of dust. It would be a fine day after all, even if it was cold, and the seaman whistled as he rowed, his wizened eyes scanning the harbor. He nodded at an acquaintance in a passing boat, then turned and caught her eye.
“Ye sure ye be wantin’ to go out to Marauder?”
Deirdre shrugged. “Well, ye said she was goin’ to Amerikay . . . to Boston, and that I could get by in her without doin’ much work.”
“Aye, that ye can, lad.” He stared over his shoulder, his eyes suddenly gleaming. “I reckon ye could certainly do worse fer yer first ship. Why, every jack’s happy to serve on that frigate—most loosely run ship in the fleet!”
“But . . . isn’t she a king’s ship? A Royal Navy vessel?”
“Aye, that she is,” the old man wheezed, leaning on his oars, “but that don’t matter none. She’s the Bold Marauder.”
The way he said the vessel’s name made it sound as though that explained everything. Was the Marauder's reputation for laxity so well known that she, Deirdre, was the only “sailor” on the wharves who was unaware of it?
Frowning, she gazed out across the rough Solent to the distant hump of the Isle of Wight—
—and nearly dropped her precious canvas bag in shock. Not a stone’s throw away, a boat was ferrying a group of grinning, gaping tars out to Bold Marauder, and in their midst sat a painted, yellow-haired doxy whose breasts were the size of ale jugs. Deirdre’s eyes bulged. Sweet Jesus, not only were they huge, they were shockingly exposed, the creamy flesh swelling above the low neckline of her gown, only the nipples hidden by the fabric. As Deirdre stared, gaping and appalled, the woman threw back her head with bawdy laughter, rested her hand on the thigh of one of the sailors, and leaned into the arms of another.
“Sweet God in heaven,” Deirdre whispered. Then she blushed to the roots of her hair as one of the sailors shamelessly plunged his hand beneath the woman’s hemline, feeling her ankle and only causing her to laugh harder. Mortified, Deirdre yanked her cap down over her eyes.
Noting her reaction, the old tar cackled with glee. “Better get used t’ such sights, lad!” he wheezed. “This is the Navy yer goin’ into!”
But there were no doxies being rowed with queenly splendor out to any of the other ships . . .
Swallowing hard, Deirdre wrapped her hands around her canvas bag and tried not to think of what horrors might await her aboard the vessel that would be her home for the next month. She had made a careful choice, hadn’t she? After all, she did want a ship where she wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Bold Marauder, with her obviously lax and indifferent captain, had seemed perfect . . .
But still, uneasiness began to nag at her, and the fear she had so bravely concealed was beginning to make itself felt in her damp palms and racing heart.
She stared at the approaching wall of the frigate’s side.
Just what was she getting into?
###
“Snivelin’ blue blood, who the blighty ’ell does ’e think ’e is, any’ow? We ain’t never ’ad to polish the bleedin’ brasswork before!”
“You think that’s bad? He had our watch out there swabbing the deck. Ye’d think he means for us to eat off it, so clean did he order it!”
“Scurvy bastard!”
“Imagine!”
“Ye didn’t oblige ’im now, did ye, Skunk?”
“Christ, no! Ye’ll see me rottin’ in hell before I swab a bloody deck!”
“Well, he won’t last. We’ve scared off three captains before him. Besides, if he’s so lily-livered he won’t even come aboard, but has to send his orders through his bosun, you can bet your arse he’ll not last out the day.”
They stood huddled near the rail of His Majesty’s frigate Bold Marauder, the officers high-born and privileged, the crew, a tough, evil-looking lot scraped from the worst of Bristol’s streets, Cornwall’s pastures, and just about every dockyard from London to Land’s End. Some wore the garb of the Royal Navy seaman: loose-fitting trousers with red-and-white stripes, short blue coats, red vests, and carefully knotted kerchiefs. Others were clad in the blue-and-white uniforms that marked them as officers, and one—the frigate’s first lieutenant—was even dressed in the manner of a Scotsman, with a bonnet, black-and-red-checked hose, buckled shoes, and a brightly colored plaid. The outfit might’ve looked striking, had its wearer not thrown a blue-and-white lieutenant’s coat over it in a halfhearted attempt to meet dress regulations.
The effect was totally ridiculous.
Above, the mist had cleared, leaving pale sunlight to poke down through the cold winter sky. The harbor was a mean, unfriendly blue, and a biting wind put caps on the waves, drove beneath heavy clothing and set teeth to chattering. But despite the cold, tempers were so hot they could have melted the ice in the water casks below.
The gunner, a hulk
ing, malodorous, bear of a man with ribs like a ship’s hull, folded his arms across his chest in defiance. “Well, all I know is that I ain’t polishin’ no bloody brass, nor decks, nor the buttons on ’is Highness’s fancy bleedin’ coat! If our new Lord and Master wants anything done, ’e can damn well do it himself!”
“Aye, ye can tell him that when he finally comes aboard, Skunk!” said the Scottish, red-bearded first lieutenant with a hearty guffaw. Brawny and tall, he had a jovial smile, a booming laugh, and no talent at all for playing the strange-looking instrument that was his most prized possession. Now he leaned against the bulwarks, carefully polishing it; it was called bagpipes, he’d told them, and it was supposed to make beautiful music—but so far, all that Ian MacDuff had managed to get out of the instrument was a horrible screeching noise that sounded like a cow in the throes of slaughter. That noise, however, had done wonders for driving the captain succeeding Richards into an insane asylum, and Ian—along with his shipmates—had high hopes of accomplishing the same with their new Lord and Master.
“Better yet,” he said, “won’t ye be getting Elwin tae do the scrubwork? Ye ken how, as surgeon, he is about cleanliness.”
“On your life, Ian!” snapped Elwin Boyd, a gawky little man who walked with his neck out like a chicken waiting for the axe. He hefted a vinegar bottle and shoved it in the big Scotsman’s ruddy face. “This is not for cleaning. I told you that long ago!”
“Here, now,” snarled Skunk, “we’re supposed to be discussin’ ’is bloody Lordship and how we’re gonna get rid of him, not brawlin’ amongst ourselves!”
“Ah, yes, the Ice Captain,” sneered Milton Lee, the purser, a bald, sharp-faced little man with a stooping, lanky body and a nose like a parrot’s beak. His eyes watering in the sharp wind, he glanced toward shore. Their new commanding officer, whom none of them had met, would soon find that the boat he had sent for would not be waiting for him, but was instead still snugged securely in the waist of the ship. It was the least they could do to irritate him. Already the new Lord and Master had had his belongings brought aboard their ship, as though he had every intention of staying; already he’d taken it upon himself to give them orders, as though he actually expected them to obey him!
Milton echoed the sentiments of his companions. “He’s supposed to be the Navy’s last hope of straightening us out. Ha! I give him one hour, Skunk, before we have him going over the side screamin’ for mercy!”
“I give him ten minutes if Ian here hauls out those blasted bagpipes!”
‘Ten minutes? He won’t last five, I’m tellin’ ye!”
“Here, now!” Ian protested, his Scots temper on the rise.
“Aw, piss off, Ian, we’re just teasin’ ye,” Skunk said, waving his hand. “Hibbert! Ye made sure our sweet Delight was well hidden, didn’t ye? We wouldn’t want ’is bloody Lordship to find ’er and keep ’er all to ’imself, eh, mate?”
“Aye, I hid her in the brig,” the midshipman said conspiratorially. His fourteen-year-old face was feral and sharp, his eyes beady and cunning, and despite the fact that his father was highly placed in the Admiralty, there wasn’t a clean spot on the uniform that he wore with such disdain. “The captain’ll never look there.”
“Good job, m’boy!” Skunk hooted, clapping the youngster on the back. “And you, Russ! Ye’re bein’ awful quiet over there! Wot d’ye think of our new Royal Highness, eh?”
“What do I think?” Russell Rhodes said, taking off his hat to rake his hand through oily black hair gone silver at the temples. “Why, given his past record, I think our new Lord and Master’s going to do his damnedest to succeed where his predecessors have failed.”
“Won’t never happen,” growled Arthur Teach, just coming up from the brig, where he’d gone to check on the “welfare” of their lady passenger. At a height of six and a half feet, Teach towered over even the burly Skunk and Ian MacDuff. Rumor had it that he was a grandson—illegitimate, of course—of the infamous Ned Teach, alias Blackbeard, a fact that Arthur was exceedingly proud of, and one that he went out of his way to mention to anyone in the unenviable position of having to hear the story of how his illustrious pedigree had come about. With his bristly black hair and beard that tickled the belt of his trousers, he was hideous enough of both temperament and appearance that his presence alone had been enough to drive Captain Number Three from Bold Marauder with his tail between his legs.
Getting rid of Captain Number Four had been a collaborative effort on all of their parts-—but this fifth one just might be a problem . . .
“Well, all’s I know is that we ain’t even met him yet and the bloody bugger’s already overstepping his bounds,” growled Skunk.
“Imagine what he’ll be like once he gets aboard the ship!”
“Imagine what he’ll be like once we put to sea!”
“Aw, ’tis cowing he’ll be, just like the rest of them,” Ian scoffed, tucking his bagpipes under his arm and ignoring the suddenly wary looks from his shipmates. “Anyone wantae hear the new tune I learned?”
“Spare us, please.”
But Ian made a rude gesture, flipped his bagpipes over his shoulder, and put the blowpipe in his mouth.
Everyone backed up.
Ian grinned. “Ye sure, now?”
“Yeah, save it for his bloody Lordship!”
“Give ’im a concert he’ll not likely forget!”
They howled with laughter until Ian, crestfallen, slammed his fist into Teach’s jaw and Teach reacted with an equally hard punch to Ian’s mouth that bloodied his lip. Fists flew, curses resounded, and in the ensuing chaos Elwin tossed the entire contents of his vinegar bottle at the big Scotsman.
“My pipes, damn ye!” Ian cried, going for Elwin’s scrawny neck. Teach drew his knife and charged gleefully forward. Skunk began to bellow, Milton to howl, Hibbert to cheer—and at that moment, a frightened shriek split the air.
“What the hell was that?”
“Don’t know. Shut up and maybe we’ll hear it again!”
“Christ, Arthur, get that bloody knife out of my face!” bellowed Skunk.
The cry came again.
As one, they looked up and toward the entry port. There, pale and shaken and skinnier than a sea worm, stood a young lad. An oversize cap covered his head, his cheeks were white as fresh sailcloth, and he had that innocent, lost look that just invited abuse.
The lad’s terrified gaze was fastened on Arthur Teach. “What’re ye gawkin’ at, ye snivelin’ whelp?” Teach roared in his best pirate’s voice. “Go on, hie yerself out of here before I carve out yer liver and toss it to the gulls!”
The youngster went whiter still, and glanced anxiously back toward the entry port. But his chin came up, and resolutely, he came forward.
“I said, off with ye!”
The lad kept walking. He looked terrified, but he came, and even the cool Russell Rhodes lifted a sardonic brow.
“Jesus,” grumbled Skunk, “that one don’t scare easy.”
“He will. Let me have at him for a bit!” Teach stalked forward, hunching his shoulders and thrusting his great, hairy head down into the lad’s face. He raised his cutlass and, in the best imitation of his grandfather, roared, “I said, get yer scrawny carcass off my ship, ye miserable pack of fish bones, before I—”
“Excuse me. I’m lookin’ for the captain o’ this boat?”
They stared. They gawked. It grew so quiet one could hear the waves lapping gently at the hull so far below.
“Boat?” roared Skunk, his eyes bugging from his grimy face. “Ye bloody boglander, ye callin’ this here fighting ship a boat?”
“Aye, that he did,” said Ian, quirking a red brow and nodding sagely.
“I’m sorry.” The lad gave a quick, fleeting grin and ruffled nervously through a canvas bag he carried under his arm. Teach’s bristly brows snapped together. Ian’s mouth formed a perfect O within the red mat of his beard. Elwin picked up his vinegar bottle, dropped it, and picked it up again. Ev
en Skunk went silent as the boy, muttering to himself, fished through his bag. Finally he produced a scrap of paper filled with notes, glanced at it, and tucked it sheepishly into his pocket. “Aye, I’m terribly sorry,” he repeated. “Ye’re absolutely right, sir. ’Tis not a boat, but a frigate of the sixth rate.”
“Fifth!” roared Teach, with as much fury as he could muster.
Rhodes, who’d been watching the drama, finally shoved off from the railing and came forward. “What do you want?”
“To see the captain. Is he . . . here?”
“Nay, he ain’t come aboard yet, thank Christ. But I’m sure the Lord and Master’ll be here shortly, just in time to weigh.”
“Weigh what?” Deirdre began, and caught herself—too late.
The piratical one reached out, grabbed her by her collar, and yanked her forward until his beard stabbed her tender cheek. Fumes of rum hit her in the face, and it was only by sheer will alone that Deirdre kept herself from fainting with fright. “Ye ain’t no seaman, so ye got no business bein’ on a king’s ship! Now get your puny carcass off this here vessel before we toss ye to the sharks!”
“Aye! Toss him to the sharks!”
Deirdre’s knees went weak. She shut her eyes, suddenly wishing she’d ignored the advice of the old sailor and found a different ship to take to Boston. Sweet Jesus, if the crew was such a pack of bloodthirsty brutes, what would their captain be like?
Then she felt the weight of Grace’s cross, hidden beneath her shirt and lying against her rapidly beating heart, and her courage returned. Her chin came up with stubborn purpose, and maintaining her brave front, she said, “Well, if the captain is not aboard, could I speak with his assistant?”
“Assistant?” the pirate roared.
“He means first lieutenant,” said the other bearded one, who was almost as big and had a Scottish brogue that was oddly comforting amidst this collection of West Country and London dialects. He was carrying a set of bagpipes, of all things, and Deirdre frowned as she noted his outrageous manner of dress. But the Scotsman merely cuffed the pirate away, grabbed her wrist, and said, “I’m Lieutenant Ian MacDuff, the man ye’ll be wantin’ tae see. Now, what is it I can be doin’ for ye, laddie?”
Master Of My Dreams Page 3
