“I trust you enjoy your stay here.” He grabbed his hat and left.
He stood in the shade and watched them leave some minutes later. Distractedly, he wondered if he should perhaps hate this man on account of his brother and uncle, but the thought made him shake his head. Graham had but defended what was his, and the world was in all probability a better place without Philip Burley – and without Joseph, however hard it was to admit it.
Tilting his head, he studied Matthew Graham and his wife, fascinated by how they automatically fell in step, a slight leaning towards each other. Her skirts brushed against his leg, her profile turned towards him, and she said something that made him laugh, bending his head close to hers. Her hand touched his, fingers widened and braided tight together as they continued down the dusty road.
He had never seen anything like it, never seen two bodies come together so effortlessly, so obviously halves of a perfect whole. Welded together, it seemed, and Michael stood where he was, his eyes glued thoughtfully to their backs until they dropped out of sight. In his mind’s eye, he kept on seeing a pair of blue, blue eyes and hair gilded by the rising sun. Maybe… Michael slapped his hat against his thigh. Yes, maybe.
Chapter 19
“I didn’t like him,” Matthew said. “Nor the way he gawked at you and how you responded to it.”
“I didn’t respond to it!” Alex lied. The young man had eaten her with his eyes, and she had liked it, her back curving to raise her breasts, her stomach held under iron control by a combination of stays and indrawn breath. Quite an attractive man, with thick hair curling in bright chestnut waves to his shoulders, and eyes the colour of a Scottish loch in winter, a mild grey. And strangely familiar: restless fingers drumming at the table, that shock of hair that fell forward over his face… Now why did that particular image make her stomach cramp?
They were back at the harbour, and Matthew led them to sit on a large rock in the shade of a small grove of trees. “I…It’s probably fanciful, but no, him I didn’t like at all, and neither did I like that he knew my name.”
“He explained that, didn’t he?”
Matthew frowned. “Michael Connor. It rings a bell.”
“Not with me. Besides, it’s not as if we’ll ever run into him again, is it?” Alex said, watching the longboat making its way from the Althea. “Maybe we could find an inn here.”
“We lie at anchor,” Matthew said. “It’s like being rocked in a cradle.”
“Not to me.”
“You’d best get used to it. We have weeks and weeks ahead of us.”
“I know,” she sighed.
*
“Somewhat better today, ma’am?” Captain Jan materialised at Alex’s side, joining her where she was staring out across the sea.
“Ugh,” Alex replied with a grimace, “it’s more a question of there being nothing left to regurgitate. Not even bile.” Her stomach lining felt ripped apart after three consecutive days spent hunched over a bucket, but at least today the sun was out and the air on deck was substantially fresher than that of their minute cabin.
“You should eat something,” the captain said, and her stomach did a somersault.
“Not quite yet, I think,” she replied, looking around for her husband whom she found engrossed in a very thick book.
“What’s that?” she asked, sliding down to sit beside him. He handed her the book.
“The Sceptical Chymist,” she read from the title page. “You understand any of it? Seems pretty heavy to me.” She handed the book back to Matthew.
“I try. Robert Boyle is a learned man,” he said, “as is our dashing captain. A shelf full of books such as these, he has.”
“No romances? No damsels in distress and brave knights riding to their rescue?”
“None, he’s a man.”
Matthew went back to his reading, and Alex reclined against him, carefully circling the thought that she was hungry – very hungry. And thirsty enough to decide to go and find the cook and beg some cider off him.
She found her son on the deck, looking sullen as he peeled turnips, and decided she wasn’t hungry after all. Her stomach rumbled unhappily at this conclusion, and Alex reconsidered. A piece of dry bread perhaps, and a slice of cheese.
“Need some help?”
David squinted up at her and shook his head. “Today’s the first day I’ve been able to sit since Da belted me, and I don’t think he would like it much if you did my work for me.”
“Probably not.” Alex sat down beside him, tucking skirts in neatly beneath her legs. “So, is this something you could consider doing for a living?”
David looked down at the heap of as yet unpeeled turnips. “This? Nay, I don’t want to do this.”
“I meant the whole sea life thing,” Alex said, not too thrilled when the bear that masqueraded as a dog placed his huge head in her lap. She scratched him behind the ears and he settled himself against her, panting in the heat.
David looked off towards the horizon. “I could take to it, and the captain says how I’m a born sailor.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Alex sent a narrow glance in the direction of Captain Jan, who was standing very alone by the prow. “It’s a dangerous life, shipwrecks, pirates…”
David shrugged. Such things would not happen to him, he told her, and besides, he could swim – like a fish almost. And as to pirates…his eyes unfocused. “A privateer is none too bad, if you have a Letter of Marque—”
“You’re still a pirate,” Alex cut in, “and ultimately you may pay for that with your life.”
“The captain has such a letter,” David informed her.
“He does?” Alex shoved the dog away from her and frowned down at the very wet patch left behind. “Kate says how he has left all that behind, after seeing his father executed for piracy.”
“For piracy, aye, not for privateering. And if a Spanish ship comes along…” It was obvious David was hoping this was something that would happen.
Alex looked about the small sloop and shook her head. “Too small, David. And as far as I can see, very unarmed.”
David raised his brows in a way that made him look even more like his father than he normally did.
“You think?” He smiled indulgently at her, the effect ruined by the fact that his voice squeaked. “All carry muskets, Mama. Several muskets, even.”
“Is he right, do you think?” Alex demanded of Matthew after having recounted her conversation with David. In her head, she was trying to draw a path from Virginia to Jamaica, and however she tried, there was no getting round the fact that any such route would carry them very close to Hispaniola and Cuba – in between them to be precise – and that made it all the more probable that they would encounter a Spanish ship or two.
Matthew’s brow creased. “I’ll ask him,” he said and strolled over to where the captain still stood, eyes intent on the south.
Alex considered joining them, but seeing how Matthew clenched his left hand, resting on his back, she decided not to, and instead studied the ship with new, suspicious eyes. Extremely neat and uncluttered, a man on constant lookout, and a crew that she now realised was larger than the ship needed, with four or five loitering in the sun while the nightwatch was fast asleep below. Her stomach complained again and with a sigh Alex decided to find something to eat. At least her seasickness seemed now to be a thing of the past, obliterated by this new found fear that she might become an unwilling participant in an act of piracy.
“If he sees a ship he can take on, he will, he says,” Matthew reported back. “And he very politely told me not to meddle in matters not mine to handle, assuring me he is not about to put us, his cargo or his ship at risk.” He glared over at the captain who just grinned, very white teeth flashing in his dark face.
“What a comfort,” Alex said.
“Ah well, as long as it’s a Spanish ship. It doesn’t harm to hinder their dominion over this part of the world.”
“Matthew!”
&
nbsp; Day after boring day followed. The stuffy cabin became unbearable around six in the morning, remained unbearable until well after ten at night, and in between Alex paced the small deck, sat and stared out at sea, paced some more, sat, paced, sat, paced. She had nothing to do, and with each passing day, she grew increasingly restless, throwing jealous looks at Matthew who read, or helped with the sails, clambering the rigging like a monkey, and in general took to sea life just as well as his son did. Walking about in breeches only, his initial sunburn soon baked into a deep, rich brown against which the old scars on his back stood out in lighter streaks.
“I wish I could undress. I could do with a tan.” Alex held her pale arm against his chest and scowled at the contrast. “And it’s too hot to walk about in shift and stays and bodice.”
“But you will all the same.” Matthew adjusted his breeches.
“And if I don’t?”
“If you don’t, I’ll lock you in the cabin,” Matthew said, and there was no doubt he meant it. Alex sighed and slouched off to sit in what little shade was afforded by the sails.
“Poor dog,” she commented to Captain Jan one day, watching the pile of black and white fur shift as far into the shade as it could.
“Why poor?” the captain asked, snapping his fingers in command. The dog lumbered to his feet and came over to sit at his master’s feet, tongue lolling like a pink tie against its chest.
“The heat must be awful.”
“Fur insulates both ways, and the men feel safe with him on board.” He tugged at a floppy ear.
“Yes,” Alex agreed, “quite the impressive watchdog.”
“Watchdog?” Captain Jan smiled down at the dog. “No, I think not – too benevolent by far. But he’s a strong swimmer and can easily hold a man or two afloat should they have the misfortune to fall overboard.”
“What? They don’t know how to swim?”
“Most of them don’t. Most sailors never learn.” Captain Jan patted the dog on his head. “So we have Othello instead.” He returned to staring at the horizon, and Alex stood beside him. A blank, empty waste – thank heavens for that!
*
Matthew noticed it the moment he came out on deck next morning. The ship vibrated with suppressed excitement, and the entire crew was there, flintlocks glinting in the sun. He could taste it, the expectation of a coming fight, and he scanned the waters around them to see their prey.
“Over there.” Captain Jan motioned with his sword. “It might be best for your wife to remain below deck.”
Matthew wasn’t impressed. “It’s but a wee ketch,” he said, studying the two-masted little vessel.
“A Spanish ketch, travelling from Cuba to Hispaniola, no doubt,” Captain Jan said. “Heavily loaded.”
Matthew could see that, and wondered what it carried that Captain Jan might want so badly.
“I want the ship. The cargo will be mostly sugar or such.” The captain frowned when Alex appeared. “It would be best if you stay below, ma’am.”
“You wish,” Alex retorted, making Matthew smile. Should he consider it necessary, he’d carry his wife below himself.
“Where’s David?” she asked.
“In the galley with the cook,” Captain Jan said, “and if he as much as shows his nose, I’ll punish him for disobeying orders.”
It was all very devious. A loud, friendly hailing, Captain Jan speaking Spanish as fluently as he spoke English, and the men on the ketch waved back. Captain Jan called out for information about “los Ingleses”, and the ketch slowed. The surprise on their faces when Captain Jan rammed Althea into their boat was total, and even more when sixteen determined men swarmed over their side, armed to the teeth.
Matthew had no intention of joining in unless it was to protect himself and his wife, but he enjoyed the elegance of the operation. The defending crew gave up after nothing more than a token fight, retreating to stand in a small group on the deck while Captain Jan’s men methodically went through the ship.
“What will you do with the crew?” Matthew asked, noting out of the corner of his eye that David had snuck out on deck and was watching eagerly.
“Set them in their longboat,” the captain said. “It’s a long row to Hispaniola, but by no means impossible.”
“And with the passengers?” Matthew nodded in the direction of where two men were being dragged out on deck.
“Catholic priests!” Captain Jan spat to the side. “They can swim, for all I care.” He said something in Dutch to two of his men, and the black-clad men were grabbed and propelled towards the side of the boat.
“Carlos.” Alex blinked. “Oh my God, that’s Carlos!” She waved her hand in the direction of the younger priest who was angrily protesting his heavy-handed treatment.
“I don’t think—” Matthew began but was interrupted by her shocked yell when the first man was pushed into the water, followed a few seconds later by his companion.
“They can’t swim,” she barked at Captain Jan. “They’ll drown, you idiot.”
“I don’t care,” Captain Jan said, and Alex whirled, making for the railing.
“Alex!” Matthew grabbed for her but it was too late, and to the surprise of both crews, Alex dived in, coming up to swim towards the drowning men.
“Woof.” The dog jumped into the water.
“Damn that woman!” Matthew handed his sword to Captain Jan and dived in after her.
“But…” A dripping Alex stood on deck and looked at the retching man.
“I tried to tell you,” Matthew said, irritated and wet. “As far as I know, legs don’t grow back.” He kicked at the two booted feet that stuck out from below the drenched oversized cassock.
Alex crouched down and studied the young man. “It’s remarkable, they could be twins.” There was a fluttering of the eyelids, and she jabbed at the priest.
“¿Quien eres?” she demanded in Spanish.
“I’ll do the talking,” Matthew said, moving her aside. “So, who are you?”
“Carlos Muñoz,” a weak voice replied in English. “I’m Carlos Muñoz, a priest aimed for the Dominican monastery in Santo Domingo.”
“Oh aye? I think not. You see, wee Carlos is missing a leg since some time back.” He could see the question flare in the man’s dark eyes, just as quickly suppressed. Alex was right: the likeness was remarkable – this man was Carlos to the day.
“It’s either Raúl or Ángel,” Alex put in.
The eyes opened wide at the last name.
“Ah,” Matthew said, “so this is Ángel Muñoz, is it?”
“To be quite correct it’s Ángel Muñoz de Hojeda, from Seville, no less.” She’d gone quite pale, eyes riveted on the man as if she’d seen a ghost.
“How do you know my name?” The young man struggled to sit up.
“Oh, I know a lot of things.” Alex eyed the man as if he were a snake.
Captain Jan was studying the man with renewed interest, and in two swift steps crossed towards him, hoisted him to his feet, and tore the cassock off him. A small package wrapped in oilskin flew out of a sleeve. Ángel lunged forward, easily beaten to it by Matthew, who swept it up, out of reach.
Definitely not a priest. Matthew had never seen such grand clothes before. Black rich velvet, piped in red and gold, Brussels lace that presently hung wet and limp from his cuffs and neck, narrow breeches that ended in black boots, the worse for wear after their encounter with salt water. His belt was lavishly decorated, the bar cage of his rapier glinting with inlays of gold.
The Spaniard made as if to pull his sword, retreating towards the railing. With the speed of a hunting hawk, Captain Jan’s hand closed on Ángel’s sword arm, and after a few moments of struggle, the Spaniard was on his knees, screaming invectives at the captain as his sword, his pistols and a wee dagger secreted in his boot were taken from him.
The man continued his raging as his hands were tied together, at one point spitting the captain in the face. Now that he looked closer, Matthew could
see that although incredibly alike, this man was subtly different from Carlos. Colder, harder like, their captive man looked capable of committing one heinous deed after the other, and when Alex shrank back against him, inhaling noisily, he clenched his jaw. Mayhap he should kill him, and then maybe there would be no future descendant to abduct his wife three hundred years from now.
“A hostage, and to judge from this, he’s worth a pretty penny.” Captain Jan fingered the heavy crucifix in gold that hung around his prisoner’s neck.
“Don’t touch me! Scum!” Ángel Muñoz snarled.
In response, Captain Jan yanked, and the gold slid into his hands. His booted foot nudged at the other prostrate shape, and with a jerk of his head, he indicated the half-drowned priest was to be lowered into the boat that already included the Spanish crew.
An hour or so later, they were on their way again, two vessels sailing side by side down the Windward Passage. Matthew and Alex were in dry clothes, the prisoner was sitting back against the mast, and Captain Jan beckoned David to come forward.
“Did you do as I said?” he asked in a neutral voice. David lowered his gaze and shook his head. “A stowaway, and on top of that you disobey my orders? I have a good mind to throw you into the sea.” David’s head jerked up and his eyes flew to Matthew’s. “On my ship, it is I that lay down the law, and the men on board follow it or bear the consequences,” Captain Jan continued. “You’ve voluntarily joined my crew, have you not?” David nodded miserably. “And so…” The captain pointed at an empty space on deck, and David fumbled with his breeches. “No,” the captain said, “your shirt. Boys are belted on their bare buttocks; men have their backs whipped.”
Alex started towards their son, but Matthew took hold of her.
“Leave him be, it won’t be too bad.”
“He’s going to whip him!” Alex hissed. “How can that not be bad?”
“He won’t be too heavy-handed, lass. If he is, I will personally feed him to the sharks.”
*
“Bloody brutal,” Alex muttered once it was over. “In my time, he would have been reported for that, probably thrown in jail for beating a minor.” Not that David seemed all that bothered, grinning rather proudly at the other members of the crew.
Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 17
