“Do ye understand me, Annie?”
Of course she understood. She wasn’t a dolt. But she felt like one as she slowly nodded. He didn’t wait for anything else as he bolted from the cabin.
The vessel was much closer than Jamie expected.
When he reached the deck the schooner was no more than two miles away and closing fast. Whoever was on watch must have been asleep to miss giving the warning sooner. Jamie made a mental note to keelhaul the bastard when the danger was past.
Lurching forward he took the ladder to the quarterdeck three rungs at a time, and then rushed toward the railing where Deacon stood, watching the fast approaching vessel through the glass. “What do ye make of it?”
Jamie spared his silent quartermaster but a glance as he grabbed for the brass cylinder. Squinting, Jamie swept the spyglass over the cut of the hull, the sail, the black pennant snapping from the yardarm. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Despite the need for haste, Jamie lowered the glass slowly. “D’Porteau.”
“’Tis what I thought.”
Those flatly spoken words spurred Jamie to action. “Set more sail,” he yelled, his eyes flashing toward the yards of canvas spread blindingly white in the sun. The French Whore was approaching fast, to the windward side, leaving Jamie little room to jockey for position.
“Hell and damnation!” Whoever had failed to raise the alarm and made the Lost Cause so vulnerable would pay. Jamie forced thoughts of what he’d do to the bastard from his mind and he tried to decide the best course of action.
Retreat seemed unacceptable. Besides, he didn’t know if it was possible. D’Porteau’s schooner was almost upon them. And Jamie knew from unhappy experience its speed could match the Lost Cause.
They would have to make a fight of it, despite the positions. Jamie glanced down toward the tars. Most of the men were huddled near the storehouse, surrounding Keena as he passed out the muskets and pikes. They were a sound lot, for the most part. Able to fight with the best of them.
“Look lively, lads!” he screamed down toward the main deck. “We’ve a French whore to screw!”
A burst of coarse cheering exploded from the wildly waving men, buoying Jamie’s spirits. He snatched up the trumpet horn. “Topmen into the masts! Prepare to rake the decks!”
Jamie didn’t have to worry about the cannons. Keena would have the gunwales open and the black snouts peering through the holes by now. Instead he turned his attention toward the helmsman who was clutching the wheel, his ruddy face sweating profusely.
“Hold her steady as ye can, Farley,” Jamie said smoothly. Because of their leeward position they were forced to take the more sluggish windward tack. The situation was not one Jamie liked... or often found himself in. As soon as the French Whore came astride the Lost Cause was vulnerable. If the French gunners were accurate they could rake the sloop’s hull below the waterline as the Lost Cause was heeled by the wind.
But Jamie tried not to think of that as his gaze flicked from the compass setting to the Frenchman’s sail. “Stay with her now, Farley,” Jamie warned. “Don’t let her cross our stern.” The wheel turned beneath gnarled, sun-browned hands and Jamie spread his legs against the swell. His gaze again flew to the pursuing ship, his grin spreading as he slapped Farley on his bent shoulder. “Ye be as good as they come, ye son of a bitch.”
Below them on the deck tars pivoted the sails, hauling and releasing the sheet ropes and tack line. They worked in perfect symmetry, beautiful to see, despite their bare-chested, fierce appearance.
“All’s ready with the guns,” came the holler from Keena, and Jamie waved his arm in response. The French Whore, her black hull knifing through the turquoise water like a dagger from hell, was nearly alongside. Jamie expected to hear the thunderous roar of her swivel guns at any moment.
“Fire at your discretion, Master Keena,” Jamie yelled down, lifting his hand in a smart salute. The blackamoor responded in kind, then turned on his bare feet. He tramped up and down the sandy deck, stopping at each of the four pounders, giving a word of advice here, a friendly nod there.
Jamie took a breath of salty air, letting it fill his lungs, and felt a quickening of excitement. What was he worried about? Luck still sat firmly upon his shoulder, as it had since the day he escaped the hangman’s noose in London. Perhaps there had been a foul-up at the watch, but d’Porteau would need more than a favorable position to win the day.
The sloop heeled with the wind as they jockeyed for position, doing their best to keep the French pirate from crossing their stern.
“She’s almost upon us, Cap’n.”
Jamie gave Farley one more quick word before striding over to the rail. Deacon was right. There was no longer a need to look through the glass to see the French Whore’s shape looming to the east. Her tars were everywhere, mirroring the efforts of his own crew. Some monkeyed their way through the rigging, muskets slung over their shoulders. Others stood watch over their cannon, waiting as Jamie’s men did, for the word to touch linstock to the powder in the base ring.
Jamie clutched the rail, watching the hated d’Porteau creep up his side. Counting the seconds by the pounding of his heart. Spray glistened like diamonds in the sunlight. The same wind that tangled his hair filled the sails giving them life, giving the Lost Cause life. Throwing back his head Jamie raised his face to the heavens. The moment was at hand.
His lips parted to signal the gunners but before a sound uttered, Jamie heard the order bellowed by Keena. Quicker than he could think how proud he was of his chief gunner’s instincts, the thunderous roar of cannons shattered the peaceful paradise. His legs spread instinctively against the ship’s recoil. Clouds of puffy smoke billowed from the guns, and filtered away to nothingness on the wind, but Jamie had eyes only for the French Whore. He watched for the fall of the shot, giving a whoop when he spotted the shattering wood on the Frenchman’s deck.
But his joy was short-lived.
The answering salvo spewed from the facing black muzzles in a billow of orange-tongued fire. The Lost Cause trembled, beneath the onslaught of bar and rope shot. Jamie peered through the smoke, trying to appraise the damage to the web of spars and rigging. The canvas still groaned, taut bellied against the wind, keeping the Lost Cause on pace with the French ship.
The firing was constant now, a steady pounding that shook the ship and turned the water between them into a boiling cauldron. Whenever the wind tore a curtain in the brimstone and saltpeter-laden smoke Jamie could see the gunners, grime covered and sweating, swabbing out the cannons’ bores. They moved quickly, ramming the powder cartridge and ball home, before priming the touchhole.
“Take us closer, Farley!” Jamie shouted the command toward the helmsman, then turned back to watch the ever narrowing length of sea between the two vessels.
“Ye sure ’tis what ye want?” Deacon cupped his hands to be heard. “Moving closer to those guns...” He let the rest trail off. It was obvious what the consequences could be. On deck tars scurried around tossing buckets of water and sand on the myriad fires erupting there.
The pummeling was brutal.
Men screamed as splintered wood tore through the air. If there was a hell on earth, this was it. The smells, the sounds, the heat that seemed to cling to skin. And Jamie was pushing them closer into the jaws of Hades.
“Cap’n.” Deacon turned toward Jamie tight-lipped, his good eye rolling wildly. “We be point-blank now.”
“And holding our own.” Twisting around, Jamie yelled to the helmsman. “Forward now. Steady.” Looking back to Deacon Jamie latched on to his arm. “Prepare the men to board.” His sweat- and grime-stained face split in a wide grin. “He missed his chance, Deacon. The Frenchman missed it.”
“I don’t under—” Deacon’s words were cut off by the tearing of wood as the mizzenmast crumbled to the deck.
“He’s after our spars.” Jamie shook hair from his face.
“’Twould have been easy to tear open our belly, while we were heeled over in the wind
.” Jamie sucked in air. “But he went for our canvas. Now we’re going to board her. Teach the lot of them how real pirates fight. Off with ye now.”
As Deacon hurried down the ladder Jamie leaned over the rail, judging the distance, then calling back over his shoulder. “Farley, get us in hard alongside. That’s it. Now hit the French bitch?”
The jolt sent tremors through the sloop. But before Jamie could give the order two pirates sprang from crouching to toss the multiclawed grappling over the side. The metal fingers caught in the shrouds, and more men leaped forward to tie off the ropes.
Yanking out his pistol Jamie vaulted off the quarterdeck. He was over the side before the smoke had cleared from the last sally. A tide of pirates swelled forward, following him onto the French vessel.
But there were those who held back... staying on board the Lost Cause and biding their time.
Jamie’s saber arced, the sun gleaming off the steel as he slashed his way toward the quarterdeck and d’Porteau. He’d waited years for this without even realizing it, and the taste of victory was sweet on his lips.
All around him the battle surged, men screamed obscenities, but Jamie paid them no heed. His focus was fixed on the giant of a man standing by the wheel. He leaped over bodies and feinted from assaults. And all the while d’Porteau seemed to be drawing him forward.
When the blow struck his head, Jamie swerved, then turned to meet his assailant. The saber fight was short and bloody, the French pirate falling to his knees, before he toppled over.
Whirling around Jamie looked for d’Porteau, but the Frenchman no longer stood on the quarterdeck. Jamie scanned the deck and for the first time noticed what was happening. His men, what there were of them, were faring poorly. Bounding forward, Jamie emptied his pistol into a pirate lunging at Deacon with a boarding pike.
And then there were three sabers vying to cross his. Jamie never fought so hard... or was so overwhelmed. His gaze flew to Deacon, to Keena, to any of his men who might help him. But they were all as busy as he. Each fighting more men than they could handle.
What had happened? The question danced through his head as he thrust and parried. Thrust and parried. First one opponent, then another. Steel grazed off his shoulder but Jamie barely felt the sting. Where in the hell were all his men? Had they all been killed, or—
“They’re striking colors!”
The heavily accented words penetrated his mind as none others could. Unbidden his gaze was drawn to the yardarm high above the Lost Cause. His flag was gone.
“What the hell?” Jamie whirled around in time to see d’Porteau aiming a pistol at his stomach. Then something exploded over his head and he hit the blood-smeared deck.
Chapter Nine
Anne slowly lifted her tearstained face from the hard pillow of her bent knees and listened. The quiet was eerie after the insufferable pounding. And the motion of the ship had calmed to a gentle sway. No more violent jerks, some so strong they threatened to toss her from the corner of the captain’s bunk where she took refuge during the battle.
It was over.
And all she could do was wait.
Her hands tightened around her breech-covered legs, drawing her more tightly into herself. And she tried to fight the memories.
There had been quiet on the island, too. After d’Porteau’s guns ceased their deadly pounding. Actually not quiet, Anne thought. Just not the noise of the cannons. The screams and crying had continued.
They still rang in her head.
But there was none of that now. Anne tilted her head, straining to hear. The timbers groaned, the sea slapped against the hull, but no other sound filtered down to her. It was as if she were drifting upon a ghost ship. A sliver of hysterical laughter slipped from her lips before she could clamp them together. She was going mad.
D’Porteau started the process when he dragged her down on the beach, and now alone in the middle of the ocean she would—
Heavy footfalls in the passageway proved her wrong. She wasn’t alone. Her fingers tightened painfully about her legs, her eyes widened as she waited for the sound to come closer. Part of her mind screamed for her to do something... anything. Find a weapon. Hide.
But she couldn’t make herself move.
When the door burst open revealing a half-naked savage she couldn’t even scream.
~ ~ ~
Consciousness exploded upon him as water slapped his face. And with it came the realization of what happened. Jerking up, coughing, Jamie came face to face with d’Porteau. The Frenchman squatted in front of him on the deck, grinning his horrible gap-toothed grin.
“Well, we meet again, mon ami.” He just stood there, staring down at where Jamie sat. “But this time I think the circumstances are different, oui?”
“Ye damned son of the devil. I’ll—” Jamie tried pushing to his feet, only to have someone jerk him down from behind. The slam he took to the wooden deck contained a painful reminder of the bleeding slash across his shoulder.
“You’ll what, Jamie MacQuaid?”
D’Porteau’s heeled boot stomped hard onto his gut, bringing Jamie waves of nausea.
“What? Nothing to say, mon ami?” He ground his foot. “But you always have something to say.”
With every reserve of strength he had Jamie grabbed hold of d’Porteau’s ankle and yanked. Caught off guard the hulk of a pirate faltered, then landed hard on his back. If it was the last thing he did on this earth, Jamie wanted to follow through with his attack. To wrap his fingers around that whisker-covered neck and drag d’Porteau screaming and gasping for breath to hell with him. But the rough arms holding him down denied him the chance.
And when d’Porteau fumbled to his feet, his face contorted in a mask of rage, a pistol aimed at Jamie’s chest, he knew he’d lost his opportunity.
The gun was cocked, and Jamie prepared to take his last breath. He expected hate and revenge to fill his mind, but it was Anne he thought of. Anne coming to him for help. Anne’s sweet body. Annie in his cabin.
His head jerked toward the side where the Lost Cause was bound to the Frenchman’s schooner. He couldn’t tell what had become of his crew. What had become of Anne. Were they all dead? Was she dead?
An unexpected sadness engulfed him, and he shut his eyes, only to jerk them open when he heard the raucous laughter above him.
“A coward at the end,” d’Porteau said, his voice full of contempt. “I always thought as much. You never came after me. And now...” He spit on the deck. “You must hide your eyes like a woman when I kill you.”
Jamie strained against the arms that pinioned him down. “Get your scurvy crew off me.” That earned him a twist of his wounded shoulder, but Jamie didn’t care. “And I’ll show you which of us is a coward.”
D’Porteau snorted. “You had your chance, Jamie MacQuaid. And you have failed. I...” He pounded his gold-braided velvet waistcoat. “... am the victor today. I am the one to decide your fate.” He released the hammer, sliding the pistol into one of the leather straps that crisscrossed his chest. “And I decree that a pistol shot is too fast and easy for the likes of you. You shall suffer as I did.”
~ ~ ~
“Looky what I found snivelin’ in the captain’s cabin.”
Anne stumbled onto the sand-strewn deck as the burly pirate shoved her forward. She blinked against the blinding light. Lifting her arm to shade her eyes she stared up at the figure looming over her. The sun radiated behind him, making his face indistinguishable.
But she knew who it was.
Spasms of terror clutched at her stomach and she wanted to just curl herself into a ball.
“Put him with the others,” came the rough command and Anne grimaced when her arm was grabbed and she was hauled to her feet.
She looked around frantically trying to understand what had happened. There was obviously a battle, and judging by d’Porteau’s presence it appeared the Lost Cause was defeated. Anne didn’t even want to imagine what that meant to her. But she could
n’t help wondering about Jamie MacQuaid. Where was he?
Her eyes scanned the deck as she was shoved along toward the forecastle. Shattered sparring rattled in the wind, and part of the mizzenmast lay twisted on the deck. She heard a scream and turned in time to see one of the crew, Farley, tossed overboard by two laughing pirates she didn’t recognize. Her reward for turning toward the scene was a sharp poke between the shoulder blades.
“Get on with you, boy.”
“But they...” Anne hesitated. “He’ll die in the water.”
“Die anyway,” the pirate sniffed. “Ain’t no sense holdin’ onto any man who can’t pull his weight.”
She wanted to tell him how barbaric he was, how thoughtless and cruel. But Anne knew it wouldn’t do any good.
Besides, he just gave her another shove. This time toward a knot of men Anne recognized from the Lost Cause. They were sitting or slumped over ropes near the forecastle. Some seemed to be nursing wounds. Others just lulling the afternoon away. But all their faces showed a concern for their unknown fate.
Spotting Joe she slumped down on the deck beside him, waiting for the pirate to amble away before saying anything. “Where’s Captain MacQuaid?” Anne realized how desperate her whispered question sounded and tried to calm herself. But her heart was thumping wildly and she didn’t think she could bear to hear what she feared was coming. She swallowed when Joe didn’t answer right away. “Is he...?”
“There.” Joe pointed his skinny arm toward larboard, where another ship was lashed to the Lost Cause. At first Anne could see nothing but the other ship and the peaceful blue sky beyond. The sails were doused but unfurled and though it must have been victorious, d’Porteau’s ship had its share of damage.
But none of that told her a thing about the captain. She turned back toward Joe, a question on her face and he grunted, angling his sharp little chin up. Her eyes shot back to the other ship, her gaze lifting.
“Oh no.” Anne bit back the cry that swelled in her throat as she caught sight of the man fettered to the ratlines spread-eagle. His golden head was slumped forward and matted with blood, his body limp. Manacles kept his wrists and ankles attached to the ropes.
My Seaswept Heart Page 13
