A Pirate's Command

by Meg Hennessy

  After several days of calm, peaceful sailing, the sky had turned nearly black in midday and a storm had churned the surface of the sea. As Donato had said, the ship plowed the water, which already sent a spray over the deck. Add twenty-foot swells to that and the ship felt nearly underwater, and the danger of sinking became more a reality.

  Colette pulled herself to the anchored chair and tried to remain in it. Motion sickness had tangled up her insides to the point she thought she might heave.

  Above, she heard orders being shouted, recognizing Donato’s voice and the stampede of running feet across the main deck. Her enchantment with the ship had vanished. She wanted nothing more than to feel solid ground beneath her feet. Would land never come?

  They had passed another English ship, and it ended the same. Though Donato was Spanish and Spain and Britain were allies, he seemed to hold them in contempt, and her inquiries as to who he really was had been left in as much of a lurch as she was right now.

  Donato had never spoken of his family in all the time she had been with him on the island, which added to her curiosity. When she had lived there, nothing seemed wrong or questionable, but now, having returned and seen the island through a different set of eyes, much was suspicious, and his life as a pirate was the most suspicious of all.

  Water covered the window, then retreated to the sea. The air was damp, cold, and salty. Every breath dragged in more moisture until she thought she’d drown. She wanted to go above to see how Donato was doing, but knew her presence would be a hindrance, since a sailor, she was not.

  She continued her vigil at the window, wishing the storm would abate and the horizon would clear enough to see his sister’s ship directly in front of them. Her heart ached for Enio, and today the loneliness spread throughout her body and made every movement hard and stiff. She rubbed her arms to ease the pain, but it did little to help. Until she saw Enio again, that pain would never subside.

  Sitting here was tedious, and she needed to get her mind off the storm. She pulled out of the chair and managed to get herself through the door and into the stateroom just as the hatch opened.

  “Colette?” Donato called out as he came down the stairs two at a time.

  “I am here.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Tossed a bit, but all right.”

  “We’re plowing water deep—” He stopped as if no further explanation were necessary.

  “We might sink.”

  He hesitated as if not sure to confirm her concern or dispute it. “I’m trying to slow us down. We’re traveling with the storm. We need it to pass us.”

  She knew from the expression on his face that he had decided not to dispute her concern, because there was more. “Go on.”

  “I want you on deck.”

  “All right, but why?”

  “If I can slow her down, the danger is not that we will plow too deep and bury the bow, but roll, capsize. I don’t want you inside the ship.”

  “I’d not survive it either way.” She knew swimming was not an option, as her leg would not work to support her.

  “We are provisioning the longboat.” He motioned to the cabin. “Dress warm and put on one of my oil slicks. I’ll wait here.”

  Colette spun on her heels with haste. He wouldn’t have asked this of her if it weren’t the absolute only way. After donning her brother’s clothes and borrowing an oil slick tunic from Donato’s things, she returned to the stateroom where he waited.

  “Donato…are you frightened?”

  He winked at her. “We will get through this, but when at sea, always prepare for the worst.”

  She emerged from the hatch before Donato.

  There was a flurry of activity on the ship. The wind howled, and the waves clamored to get aboard. Water, sometimes knee deep, ran over the main deck, forcing the men to stop what they were doing and anchor themselves or be swept away.

  The overhead sails billowed and strained against the swirling clouds, the rigging about to pop. What the men called the flying jib would disappear under the water before reappearing and throwing more water over the deck. The sea boiled into huge swells that seemed to mock their very presence, rolling up to touch the sky, then sinking back into the frothy waters.

  Donato directed her toward the longboat. Men were loading it with supplies, and she wondered how many it would carry. Donato was the captain; would he go down with the ship or survive to find Enio?

  He stood her near the longboat station as it was being made ready for launch. Others were posted along the rigging.

  “Colette, wait here. If all goes well, we’ll have no need for that.” He pointed at the longboat, then turned away from her, focusing on the ship and the deadly storm that had seized El Rescate by the teeth and threatened to shake her by the timbers until she broke and sank into the ocean.

  Donato shouted orders. The men responded, scurrying along the rigging like monkeys on a tree. In the wind, she could hear words like “heave to” and “close to the wind,” “tacking” and orders to the helm. She watched what appeared to be a well-orchestrated play, with all the moving parts working as one.

  Most of the sails came down, but two large square sails were left to manage the wind. The poles were close to bare, to slow the ship down.

  Colette watched the agitation of the seawater. She glanced up, seeing some of the sails billowing in opposite directions. As Donato intended, the large square sails fought each other for control of the ship, which made it slow down, in spite of the driving storm.

  No longer did the bowsprit dive under water. Now it rode through the waves at a steady pace. But with the slower speed, the ship started to turn with the combative sails above. Waves came over her edge, broadsiding the ship, rushing over the bulwarks. Colette grabbed the longboat and lifted her feet long enough for the water to pass, but the sudden movement burned her leg from ankle to hip.

  “Ship is broached,” someone shouted.

  “Haul in spanker!” Donato suddenly appeared at her side. Within seconds, he lifted her over the longboat and dropped her inside. Four other men were in the boat.

  “Hold on, she’s going to roll. Longboat!”

  Colette glanced up to see the main masts leaning to the larboard side; the longboat shifted and she rocked toward the sea.

  “Fore topsail, four points starboard. Main topsail, four points larboard!” Donato shouted orders and several men, barefoot and wet, bravely climbed the riggings to reach what she knew were yardarms.

  As the sails were slowly changed in the fighting wind, the ship started to right itself.

  “Reef those sails! Mark the helm!”

  “Broad on the starboard beam, Capitán!”

  “Shift the helm!” Donato raced over to join the two men who were already struggling with the helm. The men pressed themselves to the tiller and pushed. Soon a fourth man joined, and slowly the tiller started to shift.

  The ship suddenly lurched in the other direction and as if being lifted by some force, water poured over the other side. For the first time since she had come to the upper deck, Colette felt the ship stabilize. A sense of calm fell over the men as they gauged their work and the results.

  Donato turned and looked at her, and for a moment, he seemed not to see anyone but her. She smiled back with a nod, congratulating him on a job well done, feeling not only pride for him, but relief as well. The longboat didn’t look that big when compared to the vast ocean that surrounded them.

  “We hold for a while.” Donato walked over and lifted her from the longboat. “Till the storm passes by.”

  His eyes canvassed the ocean, the ship, his men, and turned to her. He reached up and stroked the side of her face. “I hope you were not too frightened.”

  “Not a thought about it.” She shrugged, pretending it was nothing, but her expression said it all. She had been terrified.

  He wound his hand in her hair and brought her face to his, then sniffed her breath. “Wondering what you were drinking, bec
ause I was most scared.”

  She reached up and took his hand that had traced along her face, his skin cold, wet, and pale. His fingers were bloody, broken, and cut. Expecting him to notice his pain, she looked up at him. The pallor of his face near dead white, his lips clamped so tight they were of the same color.

  He was a man facing exhaustion. While others had slept, he had planned their navigation. While others had slept, he had planned their provisions. He had forfeited his sleep for their son’s rescue. He had pushed himself beyond a mortal man and then had battled a sea storm for nearly thirty-six hours.

  He was beat up and exhausted. For his son. For her.

  His hat was gone, and the hair hanging beneath the bandanna was plastered to his face. Deep lines had formed around his eyes, aging him beyond his years of thirty-two. He was eight years older than she, but he looked drawn, haggard, a fighting man after a battle. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths and the color of his eyes darkened as he squinted upward, gauging the bare poles and the position of the ship.

  Could not someone else watch for a while?

  But Donato was a man of his own destiny. He would watch the ship for the night. It would be he alone who would ensure their safety, like that of their son whom he struggled to rescue. She had never considered him an unfit father, and it broke her heart to think that is what he thought she believed.

  After several more hours of waiting out the storm, it finally passed, and calmer waters smoothed the horizon.

  Colette was fatigued from the long hours of standing on the deck. She could only imagine Donato’s exhaustion, yet he continued to sail. With the sea calm and the air quiet and peaceful, she sought him out.

  “El Rescate is safe. Come, husband, you are in need of care.” She draped his arm around her shoulders with hopes he would come back to the cabin, to the bed they had yet to share.

  He resisted, glancing about the deck as if there were much to do but she could feel his unsteady gait and braced her body.

  “No, Colette, I cannot leave—” His words failed as his legs folded beneath him.

  …

  Colette pulled back the bedclothes of the small bed in the cabin next to the stateroom. The men carried Donato down the stairs, through the stateroom, and into the captain’s cabin. Gently, they placed him atop the bed. He was unconscious and pale, and a thin film of water covered his face.

  “Merci.” Colette waved the men out of the way. Ramón waited as the room was cleared.

  “What does la senora need?”

  “Help get him out of these wet clothes.” She felt his forehead. “He is burning up with fever. Have clean water and cloths for bandaging brought in. He’s hurt.”

  Ramón ordered the basin, then pulled off Donato’s boots.

  Donato didn’t react to it. His eyes remained closed, and his face turned from pale to a feverish red. Within minutes, Ramón had relieved Donato of his clothes, and Colette had him tucked beneath the bedclothes. He started to shiver as she tucked the corners of the bedding around him.

  A man appeared at the door with a basin of water and cloth.

  “Set it there.” Colette turned to face Ramón. “You sail this ship. Leave a man in the stateroom if I need help.”

  “Si, senora.” Ramón bowed and left the room, followed by the other personnel who had followed their captain. “I will leave Jose. He will await your command.”

  “That is good.” Colette pushed them out the door and closed it behind them.

  She had spent many years working as a volunteer in hospitals and orphanages. She knew the signs of exhaustion and fever. She sat down on the bed, took a cloth, dipped it in the water basin, and wiped his face. Then she folded it over his forehead. He made no attempt to open his eyes as she smoothed his hair back. Shadows from the lantern framed his face. For the first time since she had known Donato, he looked vulnerable, in a weakened state.

  She pulled back one edge of the blankets and began to wash him down, cooling him with each stroke. Her cloth traveled along the length of his arm, over the well-defined muscles that had been pushed beyond their capacity. She wiped each deeply cut and bruised finger clean, relieved to feel that his bones were intact. Fighting the wind had been a painful process. She wrapped each gently cleansed finger with bandages, securing them with a tie.

  Pulling back the blankets, she ran a cool cloth across the expanse of his chest, dipping into each shadow within his collarbones, relieved to find them intact. She brought the cloth over his shoulders and back across the apex of his chest, noting a battle scar here and there.

  His muscles moved with a slight twinge under her care. Her cloth migrated back and forth, lower and lower over his chest until she felt the edge of his rib cage and the firm muscles of his abdomen. With each inch she covered, she imagined the feel of his arms around her, of being pressed to his chest, and the sheer male power of his body.

  He stirred, trying to open his eyes, but failed, then whispered, “Colette.”

  “Sshh.” She quieted him. “You must get well. The men need you.”

  “I need you,” he said before he drifted asleep.

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she brushed them away, feeling her nose stuff up and a choke fill her throat.

  “And I you,” she whispered, though she knew he did not hear her.

  She rewrapped the wound he had from New Orleans. It had been healing, but had started to bleed again with the strain his working muscles put on the thin scar.

  Upper body done, she focused on his legs. His feet were cold and wet in spite of the fever that ravaged his body. She wiped them clean and found a warm pair of stockings in his valise. She pulled them onto his legs. She worked her way upward, her cloth removing the soil and fever. His legs were thick with muscle. Her hands moved along his calves, solid and firm, and over his knees, remembering the feel of his weight atop her.

  A light breeze touched on the windows, and the floor beneath her was flat and straight, the ship on an even keel. He had saved them from this storm, again, like he had in the gulf. Perhaps, she smiled to herself, he was a better sailor than her brother.

  The bedclothes were draped across his thighs. She stood and peeked out the window, noting that the waves were less roiled, and the dark sky had started to clear. She had no idea what time of the day it was, but guessed it to be close to evening. How grateful she felt not to be out in those vast waters in a longboat filled with men.

  He stirred again with a deep sigh, pulling her attention back to him and the course of action she had yet to finish. She had given many bed baths over the years on ailing men and woman in hospitals, but Donato was different.

  His muscles seemed to respond to her touch, moving slightly beneath her massaging fingers as she cooled his burning skin. She slowly savored her time to explore his body, falling into the memories of his love for her and how only he could make her feel.

  He stirred again, making her pull back and cover his body with the blanket.

  She opened the door to the cabin. “Clean water in the basin and drinking water.”

  Jose took the basin with a bow and left the stateroom.

  Donato had fallen back to sleep. A touch to his forehead confirmed the fever. Having tucked the bedclothes in around his body, she awaited the chills.

  The clean water had been delivered, and now her only recourse was to wait it out. She pulled off her wet clothing and laid it about the room to dry. While standing in her chemise, fighting chills herself, Donato stirred again.

  “Donato?” She migrated back to the bed and gently lowered her weight to the mattress. She felt his forehead, hot to the touch. His eyes fluttered open and he looked at her.

  “What happened?” he whispered, glancing around, confused.

  “You are exhausted, Donato. Allow yourself to rest.” She smoothed back the hair from his forehead, running her fingers along the stubble of his overgrown beard. “The storm has passed. We are again smooth sailing.”

  He caught her ha
nd in his and looked up at her. She wanted to fall into those dark eyes that slowly roved over her appearance. Her hair was down and dressed in a chemise, her neck, bosom, and arms were exposed to his visual exploration. In his eyes, she saw what she had been feeling moments ago…desire.

  “A beautiful nurse, I have.” He started to reach for her when he realized his fingers were bandaged. He wiggled the fingers of both hands. “Whom I cannot touch. Is that by design, Colette?”

  “If only I were that clever, but no. Why did you not wear your gauntlets?”

  He dropped his arms to his side. “Too wet and heavy. I had much to do.”

  “Rest now, please, you must, for all of us.” She ran her fingers along his collarbone and hesitated near a scar on his shoulder. “I have seen these scars before, but never knew from where they came.”

  “Frenchmen.”

  “And the one over here?” She swept her fingers across his chest to settle just between his first two ribs.

  “Frenchmen.”

  “And over here.” Her fingers slid to the opposite side of his chest.

  “Frenchmen.”

  “I see. I would ask about more, but I think I would get the same answer, non?”

  He reached up and grasped her hand between his bundled fingers, placing it palm side down across his heart. “You do not ask about this wound?”

  Colette inhaled a deep breath, unable to let it go. A wave rushed her head, making her feel underwater and woozy. She wet her lips, trying to assimilate what he had said. For if he were to look very deeply at her, he might see the very same wound.

  “Donato, there is no wound there.” She tried to deflect the pain his statement brought her.

  “Si, look deep. A Frenchwoman, whom I loved very much, wounded my heart.”

  “A foolish Frenchwoman, I fear.” She fought her own pain, her own distrust, her own desire to little avail. “Perhaps, if allowed, she would heal you again.”

  “Perhaps.” He again dropped his arms to his sides and closed his eyes. “Perhaps.”