by Lisa Olech
Each face of the remaining men held the pain of their loss. Jocelyn felt helpless to ease their grief. They’d all lost too much. Life would never be the same. Not for them. Not for her. She sat in the shadow of a lashed barrel and cried for them all.
It wasn’t long before the rescue party returned to the Scarlet Night. A solemn shake of MacTavish’s head told the rest everything they needed to hear. “Ne’er seen the like. They didn’t stand a chance.”
Jocelyn waited. Ric was the last of the four to climb over the gunwales and drop onto the deck. A fist seemed to punch behind her ribs at the mere sight of him. Rugged and golden. A rush of gratitude washed over her. He’d saved her. Not once, but twice in a single day. Had he not rescued her from that horrible auction, she, too, would be among the dead of Port Royal.
He may be an unlikely hero, but he was a hero nonetheless. He was her hero. And a pirate, yet. A pirate with the heart, and the face, of an angel.
Chapter 5
Heaviness settled within Ric’s chest on the row back to the Scarlet Night. He’d been a pirate most of his life. Fought through countless bloody battles, watched men die brutal deaths. Many by his own hand or at the blast of his cannon. Even given all that, he’d not soon wash the images he’d seen today from his memory. The victims of the earthquake would forever haunt him.
Any hope Ric harbored of returning again to Port Royal the next day were dashed as the skiff rumbled beneath them with a strong aftershock. The ground continued to tremble as if the city fought to claw its way back to the surface. It wasn’t safe to go back. They needed to get the ship away from this harbor and to open sea. Another tidal wave would swamp them.
Besides, it would be a fool’s errand to return. What was done, was done.
Hundreds dead. With the heat this time of year, it wouldn’t take long for the bodies to bloat and begin to decompose. It would be gruesome. Those, if any, who managed to survive one hell would be wishing they were dead before long.
“Where be Tupper?” MacTavish asked as they returned to the deck of the Night.
Hornbach shook his head. “She be in a bad way. Took to her cabin.”
“Says to send Captain Quinn to her when he gets back,” added Dowd. “Convinced he’s still alive.”
Hornbach cuffed the young seaman, “She’s wrestling her mind around what’s happened, is all. Give her some time, she’ll come about.”
“What about Bump?” Ric scanned the deck. He didn’t see the boy, but found Jocelyn curled tight to a barrel. Her knees drawn, she had tucked herself into a ball. Wide eyes met his. All he could think at that moment was if not for her, they’d all be among the bodies floating in Kingston harbor.
“Took it hard,” Dowd said, jerking Ric’s attention back to their conversation. “I’ll try to find him.”
Ric caught his arm. “Best give him a bit of time as well.” He searched the faces of those around him. They all needed a chance to come to terms with what had happened. “We all be needing a bit of time.”
“Anybody be needin’ me, I’m heading te me armory and drownin’ meself in a barrel o’ rum.” MacTavish lumbered off. “If I’m blind drunk, maybe I won’t remember what I’ve seen today.”
“I’ll help ye,” mumbled Summer following in his wake.
“Me, as well,” agreed White.
Ric would have to join them later. He still had to explain things to Jocelyn. When he approached her, she stood and smoothed her skirts. She’d been crying, but tried to hide it with a quick swipe to her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he began, “Auction Square is gone. Washed away. I’m afraid your companions are lost.”
“They were already lost.” She shook her head. “Even before they were washed away. Do you suppose it’s a sin to be grateful for such a tragedy?” Worry creased her brow.
Ric let out a tired breath. Given what awaited those other women, he couldn’t blame her. “I ain’t the person you should be askin’ to judge sin.”
“No, you’re my hero.” She reached out to squeeze his arm.
The look in her eye brought him up short. “I ain’t that either.”
“You are to me.” She lifted his hand, kissed its palm, and held it to her chest. “I owe you my life.” She smiled at him with shining eyes and stepped closer. “Not only did you save me from a fate more horrible than death, you saved me from the terror of the quake. I’ll be forever grateful. Forever in your debt.”
Once again, Ric marveled at the silk of her pale skin beneath his touch. Part of him now wanted not to drown himself in a barrel of rum, but in her. Forget the horror of this day. Lose himself in her innocence. Kiss her lips, caress the milky tenderness of her breasts. Run his fingers over the smoothness of her thigh as he’d done back in the alley. The naïve look upon her face told him it would be simple to use her gratitude to woo her into his arms. Into his bed.
What the hell was he thinking? Looking at his hand, the contrast between the rough filth of his skin against the spotless purity of her jolted him back to reality. He jerked his hand from hers as if he’d been scalded. “Ye owe me nothin.’ Ye be the one saved the lot of us scurvy bastards.” He shoved his hand through his hair. “An’ if yer smart, you’ll be keeping a good distance from me. I ain’t yer knight in shining armor. I’m a low-life pirate who only stole ye from that auction ‘cause I wanted to have ye for myself.”
It was a lie, or was it? Ric struggled with what was true. He’d meant only to save her, but once he got close. Held her tight to him. Touched her. Smelled the sweetness of her skin. The black and white of what he’d done and why became blurred. But there was no way he’d be taking Beauchamp’s daughter. Neither would he allow her to believe he was better than he was.
He had to find Bump, and he needed to follow his own warning and keep far away from her. “While ye’re busy counting yer blessings, be thankful yer last name is Beauchamp, for there ain’t a man left aboard that be wanting what’s laying beneath them skirts.”
Ric heard her gasp as he stormed away.
He’d hit his mark. Innocent fool. How naïve could she be? Looking at him all moony eyed. Hero? Him? Ha! If she had any idea that he wanted to bend her over the rail and toss her skirts over her head, she’d never be calling him a bloody hero.
For the next hour, he searched for Bump. Tupper had locked herself in her cabin. He’d tried to talk to her through the door. Tell her how sorry he was, but she’d thrown something heavy against the wooden planks and ordered him away. The lad couldn’t be with her given her state.
Bump had been a small child when he came aboard. He knew every hiding place on this ship. Ric thought he did too, but obviously he was wrong. It wasn’t as if the boy could hear Ric calling out to him. After a while, he gave up the search. If Bump didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be found.
Frustrated, Ric returned topside. It was an eerie sight. The decks of the Scarlet Night stretched out in empty silence. A deep sense of sadness and abject loneliness reached into his bones. If he closed his eyes, he could still see them all. Gavin Quinn, Neo, Finch… He could hear them. Captain Quinn giving his orders. Sharp and crisp. The image of efficiency. He was a fine Captain. Good and fair. Fierce and ruthless in battle. A defender of his ideals.
Ric had served under this ship’s last two Captains. Gavin Quinn and before him Jaxon Steele. He’d been lucky to have been counted among the crew. But now…
The Scarlet Night sat dead in the water. With no sail set, she bobbed, noiseless save for the gentle lap of waves against her hull. She floated adrift, awaiting her orders, but without a captain to set her sails and chart a course…
The stillness on deck screamed at him. He needed to find the others. Ric’s search found them in the galley. MacTavish, White, and Summer where three sheets in already. Hornbach and Dowd had filled the table to bursting. Roasted meat and fresh fruits and vegetables, crusty loaves of bread. It was a feast fit for a crowd ten times their size.
“Don’t know what we’re to do from here.” Hornbach filled Ric’s plate to overflowing. “But we’re sure te eat good. Least till all this food starts to rot.” He swept a hand to indicate the stack of crates and barrels overflowing with produce and foodstuffs. “Galley was loaded ‘fore we left dock, but in this heat, we can’t be keeping some of this more than a week or two. Got enough rum and ale for a crew of forty, so doubt if we’ll mind. Least not fer a while.”
Ric grabbed a bite of ripe rich ackee fruit. He sat at one of the long, rough-hewn galley tables to eat. From here, he could see Jocelyn sitting alone in the corner picking at the pile of food in front of her. He took a swallow of ale. Somehow, he still had to find a way to get her to the northern side of the island. But that was no guarantee there’d be a ship to take her to Tortuga. There was a good possibility the north had suffered the same fate as Port Royal. Although if the wave came from the south, there might be a chance. There had to be a chance. If not, what would he do with her?
“What we do wit that one?” MacTavish jerked his head in Jocelyn’s direction as though reading Ric’s mind. He dropped his bulk in front of him blocking his view of the girl. His drinking partners followed suit.
“I don’t rightly know,” Ric confessed.
Summer sniffed. “I couldn’t care less about the girl. She shouldn’t be aboard. Bad luck an’ all. I say we toss her over.”
“If it weren’t for her, we’d still be tied to the dock. You remember the dock? The one sitting under all that water?” Ric pointed the tip of his knife at Summer. “How’d that be for bad luck?”
“Still don’t like the idea of a woman aboard,” grumbled Summer.
“Don’t let Tupper be hearing ye.” MacTavish spoke into his mug.
“Tupper ain’t no woman. She’s…Tupper,” reasoned Summer. “Woman or no, we still be in deep shit. No captain, no crew. Sitting out here like a turd in a puddle.”
“Ye should be a poet there, Summer.” White scoffed.
Hornbach and Dowd joined the conversation. “Anybody got any ideas?”
Ric pushed away his plate. “How many of us are left?”
“Yer looking at most all of us. Nine if ye count her.” MacTavish tipped his head toward Jocelyn again. “We can sail the Night with a half dozen, if we don’t run up against somebody wanting to blast us out of the water. What we be needin’ is a captain.”
“I’d vote fer Tupper in a second,” piped White. Since the first day she stepped foot on this ship, White had been her champion. At least now he didn’t drool when she walked by.
Summer nodded. “Me, too, if she was fit.”
“Could be she be fine come mornin,’” argued White.
“An’ if she ain’t?” fired MacTavish.
Hornbach thumbed to his right. “MacTavish is senior among us. He should be captain.”
The burly Scot near choked on his rum. “I can tell ye how much powder to use if ye want to blow a tick off an arse at twenty yards, but I don’t know nothin’ about navigating a ship.”
“Summer?” Ric asked.
“Ye want te be sailing in circles?”
White raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t be lookin’ te me.”
“Ric, you got some navigatin’ skill,” noted Hornbach.
He shook his head. “I’m a gunner, not a captain.”
“Ye be a captain now.” MacTavish slapped the table. “Yer all we got ken read a chart.”
Ric jerked. “Me? Captain of the Scarlet Night? Yer all daft.”
MacTavish leaned in. “It’s you or Dowd, here, an’ he’s barely out of short pants.”
“I call fer a vote.” Summer raised his hand. The rest followed. “Majority rules. Ricochet Robbins be the new captain.”
Ric finally raised his own hand, but added. “Just until Tupper is up to the task.”
Nods and shrugs circled the table. “Done.”
“Aye.”
“Agreed.”
Ric Robbins was now Captain of the Scarlet Night.
“Don’t be bouncing us off anything, eh, Ricochet?” jibbed Summer.
MacTavish filled all their tankards to the brim. “That’s settled. Now I say, we drink to our new captain.” They raised their mugs and toasted Ric.
The sun was setting on the day that had begun with such bright promise. Never could Ric have imagined it would end like this. He remembered a few of the last words he’d said to Captain Quinn in jest, “Ye could always make me captain.”
The thought sent a shaft of pain through Ric. He was no Gavin Quinn. Not even close. But he owed it to his ship and his crewmates to do the best he could. He owed it to Jocelyn Beauchamp to see her delivered safe to her father, and he owed it to his Captain to take care of the Scarlet Night and what was left of her crew.
Ric lifted his tankard. “To hell with me,” he countered, “tonight, we drink to our dead.”
Chapter 6
Jocelyn pushed at the abundance of food upon her plate. She’d never eat all this in a week. Here in the galley, the men had spent the last hours eating and drinking as much rum as they could hold. They swapped stories about their fellow crewmates, lifted their mugs to each of their memory. Laughed, cried, sang. The revelry swirled around her. In their drunken state, they hardly noticed her presence. They toasted everything from one man’s mother to another’s pet rat.
The large Scotsman, who’d helped remove the heavy iron shackles that bound her wrists when she’d been brought aboard--MacTavish his mates called him--slammed an overflowing mug of rum down in front of her before giving her a good natured pat on the back. The blow jarred her teeth. “Drink up, Lassie.”
Jocelyn had never been one to imbibe in spirits. It was strictly forbidden. Alcohol, namely wine was only allowed during Communion and at evening meals, of course, but the Sisters of Sainte-Genevieve served a weak, watered down Boudreaux one could scarcely call wine. One small glass. Never more.
She eyed the tall tankard. Perhaps she could take a little taste. Lift her own glass in salute to those she lost today. Sister Bernadette would turn in her grave should Jocelyn toast to her with such a brew. Curiosity was a powerful thing, however. Temptation, the devil’s tool.
When Jocelyn had departed from the Abbey, an odd feeling had enveloped her. For the first time in her life she had felt freedom. Even under the hawk-like stare of Sister Bernadette, she was outside the thick stone walls that had sheltered her, caged her, most of her life.
It was true she was heading to her father only to be locked in another cage of sorts, but the sliver of time between had been exhilarating in a way Jocelyn had never dreamed. Heady. She was no fool, she knew her fate. What little freedom she experienced during their crossing would soon come to an end. But for a brief moment, for her, it breathed new life into her lungs.
Being captured and dragged through the fetid streets of Port Royal had been terrifying. The thought of what might have been…horrifying. Even now, surrounded by pirates not knowing what was to come, frightened her. And yet… If asked, she would have to confess that there lay a tiny spark deep within her that looked upon this night as a continuation of some grand adventure. One for which she was destined.
One she had been longing for her entire life.
The sweet, burnt aroma of the rum reached out to her. She leaned closer for another whiff. The strong fumes stung her nose. She pulled back and looked around at the others. They drank this? Willingly?
Once again, curiosity enticed her. She slid the tankard closer, and glanced around to see if anyone was watching. At the abbey there was always someone watching. Jocelyn gave herself a shake. She wasn’t at the abbey, and she wasn’t a child. If she wanted a taste of rum, then she would have one. Perhaps she would have two.
She dropped her chin and marveled at her bravado. When had she become so unrefined? When had the fact that she was alone in a room full of men--pirates--not scandalized her?
She’d never been
without a chaperone before this morning. Alone with a man, let alone half a dozen was a disgrace. Her reputation lay in tatters at her feet. She should be horrified. Traumatized. Not reckless and wild and contemplating swilling rum like some tavern wench--if that was indeed what tavern wenches swilled.
The men before her lifted their mugs to their uncertain futures. With a cheeky grin, she followed suit.
The liquor blazed a fiery passageway into her belly. Had she swallowed burning treacle? It stole her breath and turned it into that of a dragon. Jocelyn set her drink down then covered her mouth with her hand and choked. Hot fingers unfurled like scorching tentacles through her body as her eyes watered in protest.
MacTavish circled back, staggered, and jostled her table. Rum sloshed from Jocelyn’s mug and ran to drip off the edge.
“A thousand pardons, lass.” He refilled her drink from the bottle he’d been hoisting.
“How can you drink this?” Jocelyn coughed again and pushed it away. “It’s liquid fire.”
MacTavish pushed it back. “After the third or fourth swallow, ye not be noticing the flames.” He joked. “After the ninth or tenth, ye’ll not notice damn near anything.”
“Don’t force her te drink, ye damn fool.” Ric stared down at her with eyelids at half-mast. How many swallows had he had? “Can’t be deliverin’ Beauchamp’s daughter drunk as a Finnish flounder.”
Why she took his words as a personal challenge she didn’t know. Jocelyn straightened in her seat, pulled the tankard back toward her, and turned the flame in her stomach into an inferno with a large gulp. She put the back of her hand against her lips. Partly to stifle the gasp threatening to escape, partly to keep her stomach from throwing it back.
Ric’s expression of disbelief was followed by another good-natured wallop from MacTavish’s meaty paw against Jocelyn’s shoulder. “See there. None be forcing the lass.”
