Repeatedly they dove into the Caribbean Sea, looking for any sign of Sophie Dubois as the daylight leaked into twilight, and twilight faded into evening. The usually clear waters became murky in the dimness. After what seemed like hours, most of the pirates stopped their searching. Andre and Limey continued diving, refusing to give up on their quest for Sophie.
A faint splash in the waters above sent Andre skimming to the surface. Had someone found her? Was she safe? When he broke the surface, neck twisting right and left, all he saw was his first mate, Pedro de Gallo, sitting in a dinghy holding a dripping oar. Andre’s heart plummeted. His first mate had only been swatting the water to get their attention. He sliced through the water toward him, held onto the side of the dinghy while Sophie’s first mate appeared nearby. De Gallo spoke.
“You need to quit tonight, capitán you can no longer see up from down. what if swim downwards instead of up? we cannot afford to lose as well, sir. she you.
“How can I leave her, Master G? It’s so dark. She’ll be frightened. For all her courage, she didn’t like to be alone.” He dragged himself into the skiff, admitting to the folly of continuing the search at night. Limey followed suit. De Gallo pulled the ropes and soon they were winched upwards. No one had the answer to Andre’s question.
“We could start the search again at first light, Capitán—"
Sopping wet, Andre addressed his first mate. “She didn’t know how to swim, mate. I just gave her first lesson yesterday. With that fall from the deck and that wound, as well as not knowing how to swim, she’s gone, Master G. She’s gone.” All three men stared at the ocean below.
Once the little boat came to a jolting stop, first Pedro got out, Andre next, and Limey last, all dripping and panting from their exertions. Andre spared a malevolent glance at the corpse of the youth Luis, a vague lump in the glow from the ship’s lanterns.
Staring at the remains of Sophie’s killer, something clicked in Andre’s mind. He reached out and snatched de Gallo’s pistol from the man’s belt, shoving its barrel into Limey’s face. Everyone froze like actors who had forgotten their lines, staring at Andre. The flickering lamplight provided an evil atmosphere.
“You brought that child assassin on board. Maybe it was you who hired him, mon ennemi. After all, if you couldn’t have her, maybe didn’t want anyone have her, to namely me."
Limey’s expression was a mask of incredulity, but the idea, spoken in a moment of despair, grew on Andre. He tightened his hold on the miquelet.
“Oh, ballocks, Dubois. Why would I kill her? I loved her. You of all people know that. You know Zheng hired the boy. You heard Luis shouting his name. You’re the real reason Sophie is gone. You slept with Zheng’s wife, he found out, and had your wife killed. You’re the one responsible for her death, so quit trying to shift the blame onto me, you bloody bastard.”
Andre studied the youth, looking for a reason to kill him. All he saw in his eyes, though, was fear and sorrow. Fear for his life, because Andre could shoot him in an instant, and sorrow for the death of Sophie. It was that sorrow that saved his life.
With a growl of frustration, he pulled back his gun hand and cracked Limey across the face with the miquelet’s barrel. Then he snarled at the gathered pirates, “Take this cur down to the brig for safekeeping.”
Two men grabbed Limey’s arms and yanked them behind him as he struggled against his captors, feet kicking out, shoulders twisting against his human bonds. With blood dripping down his cheek from the pistol blow, he hollered at Andre, “Still blaming me for your mistake, Dubois? You’re the real reason she’s dead. You hear me? You caused her death.”
Limey continued shouting while he was taken below, his voice fading from earshot, his accusations hanging in the air like humidity. Andre shoved the miquelet into his own belt and lurched toward his cabin, maintaining a wide berth around the corpse of Luis.
“Burn that murderer’s carcass down to ashes before dumping him in the ocean,” he commanded over his shoulder to the remaining pirates on deck. “I don’t want any human part of him sharing my wife’s grave.” He disappeared into his quarters, slamming the wooden door for emphasis.
~*~
In the misty, predawn light, Andre staggered out of his cabin where he’d rendered himself drunk and unconscious hours earlier. Through bleary eyes, he spied his first mate smoking at the helm, though the Princess remained dead in the water until he chose otherwise.
With his shirt hanging loose about his waist and hair a wild tangle framing his face, he stumbled to de Gallo’s side. He stopped to stare out at the dark water around them. De Gallo gave him a nod and took a deep drag on his cheroot. He waited for Andre to speak.
“The bastard below is right, y’know. She’s dead because of me. He might have brought the by-blow aboard, but she was killed because of me. I know it. I just never thought Zheng had tentacles that reached this far.”
They stood silent, listening to the waves slap against the side of the ship’s hull.
“The Formosa pirate knows to kill someone you love is a strong form of revenge, mi compadre, sí?" De Gallo exhaled smoke, and tossed the spent butt over side.
Andre raised his brows. “We never spoke of love, mon ami. We did not really know each other long enough. I mean, what is love, actually?"
The Spaniard left the stationary helm to straddle a gun barrel and roll another cheroot. Andre did likewise, reaching out for the smoke-makings even as de Gallo commented, “Tell me this, mi amigo—how do you feel right now?"
Looking down at his half-made cheroot, Andre chose his words with care. “Angry. Furious. Ready for revenge.”
De Gallo slanted a look at him while licking the cheroot paper. “That is good. Revenge is good. But nothing more...personal, eh?”
Andre paused while he contemplated the question. “I can’t believe she’s gone, Master G. I’m looking for her everywhere on this blasted ship. She should be at this helm, second-guessing my every decision. She should be requesting another bloody bath from our drinking supply. She should be in my damn, cold bed. Merde.”
Andre flung himself off the cannon and paced away. He flicked the unsmoked cheroot over the rail and grabbed his hair at his temples. He ignored the pain. Pivoting sharply to face his first mate, he snapped, “She should be anywhere but where she is—down there in the dark, cold locker of Davy Jones.”
De Gallo returned his look. “Even in the arms of that traitor in the brig below?”
Andre kicked the edge of the gunwale. “If it meant she were alive instead of dead, aye, even in his arms, Master G. Even in his arms.”
The two men stared at each other, the Spaniard remaining silent. After a moment, Andre shrugged, leaned out over the rail. “Besides, if she were in his arms, I could always shoot him then.” His first mate snorted. Andre returned to his cannon of choice, sitting and glaring at the indistinct horizon.
De Gallo nodded and drew deep on his cheroot. “Well, Capitán, let me pose you a question about this topic. which is the strongest action, most enduring—making love, being in or simply loving? Perhaps when find answer to that will know how deep your feelings run for wife, eh?"
They stared at each other, until Andre stood and rolled his tense shoulders. “That is a conundrum, mon ami, but one, alas, that is also moot. the only thing i need concern myself with now revenge. we sail for Tortuga at first light to drop off turncoat below. and then it on la Nouvelle-Orléans stock up.
His first mate swung his leg over the gun and stood, cocking his head. “We sail for—?”
“Formosa, mon ami. Formosa."
~*~
Over the ensuing days, any ship they came across, be it merchant, passenger, or even pirate, Andre fired upon it, boarded it, and then ordered it scuppered, often giving no time for passengers or crew to abandon ship. He didn’t give a rat’s ass, either. Sophie was gone. She’d taken his compassion with her.
The swag in the Princess’ hold multiplied exponentially during their return
trip to Tortuga. Andre prided himself on that fact, as well as his new, more bloodthirsty reputation. He was done with being fair and levelheaded. Had that kept his wife safe? No.
“Sail ho, Cap’n. On the beam.”
The cry came at mid-morning on their last day out. Lurching from his quarters again, shirt hanging loose and hair once more a jumbled mass, Andre managed to hold tight to his rum bottle while he balanced on the coaming of the nearest hatch. He gripped a line with his free hand as he spied their prey, ordering, “Harden up, you landlubbers. Bring her about, hoist the colors and prepare to board.”
He tossed back another generous swig of his constant companion, and removed one tar-stained finger from the bottle’s neck, pointing it at the other ship. “You’re mine, mon amour. All mine. He hurled the now-empty bottle into waves, jumped to deck, and swaggered over to the wheel, wresting it from pirate handling it.
“Move over, son, and let a real man do the job,” he said by way of explanation, proceeding to cut the Princess through the waves like a predatory shark.
Soon they were bobbing alongside the other vessel and, at his order, the Princess’ crew swung over the watery divide like monkeys on vines, their small knives clenched between their teeth. The passengers and crew of the Bonny Lass huddled together on the deck. They squealed as the pirates swarmed the ship, circling the group and feigning jabs at them to make them wail.
Andre swayed across the plank like a drunken geisha after everyone else had arrived. When he reached the captives, he pulled his sword and pointed it under the other captain’s multiple chins. He dragged it gently across the man’s bobbing Adam’s apple, speaking as if to a lover.
“All we want, mon ami, is down in your hold. Don’t try to be a hero and you’ll escape with cock intact, eh?" He gave a dismissive glance at the man’s crotch before stepping back from the huddle sheathing his sword. Spinning about, he jumped to the bulwark, steadying himself with a hand in the rigging. “Take what she’s got, men, leave her empty wanting."
He teetered on his perch, winking and grinning at the cowering prisoners while the pirates ran amuck over the ship. Bullying people had its own rewards, he found.
Within minutes, the crew had transferred the Bonny Lass’ swag and supplies to the Jade Princess. Only Andre, his first mate and a few die-hard treasure seekers remained aboard.
Andre eyed the huddle of captives before jumping from his perch, wobbling with arms outstretched to maintain his balance. He delivered the death sentence. “Scupper her, Master G, in flames of glory.”
He took a running start, and gracefully swung back to the Princess, leaving the Spaniard to oversee the burning and sinking of the Bonnie Lass with the travelers still aboard. He’d gotten what he wanted. All the rest could go to hell.
That evening, he lounged along the length of a bow chaser, an empty rum bottle rolling on the deck beside him, when his first mate addressed him. “ Capitán, a word, por favor."
He rolled his head toward de Gallo and blinked him into focus. “What’s on your mind, Master G?”
“The crew, Señor, has some concerns regarding the way our pillaging and plundering has been executed lately, and have requested me to discuss their concerns with you."
“What? Are they not receiving enough swag to their satisfaction? They know we always settle up in La Nouvelle-Orléans, after Le Commandant receives his due.”
“No, no, Capitán, they are quite happy with their shares of the plunder. Their concerns, including my own, involve the manner at which we gather our...rewards. We have become...more bloodthirsty than in past, and that sits wrong with the men, beggin’ your pardon, Señor. Killing innocents has never been a part agenda before."
Andre sat up, frowning in disbelief. “Ceci est incroyable. Pirates with a conscience. What, would they rather trade our victims, perhaps barter or buy their valuables? Fils de pute." They locked gazes. Andre looked away first with a grunt.
Choosing his words with care, the Spaniard said, “The men you have sailing with you are loyal, Capitán. This you must know. They also commiserate with for your loss. However, they are used to our old way of doing business, as little bloodshed possible. All they ask is that we go back to that way. Let me remind you, mi amigo, sailing with an unhappy crew not advisable, sí?"
Andre studied his first mate with boozy concentration. At last, he gave one short nod. The warning deserved merit. “I’ll take it under advisement. Now leave me be.”
De Gallo bowed and retreated. With a curled lip, Andre went in search of another bottle of rum.
~*~
“Get off your traitorous ass, you covetous cuckold. It’s time you left my munificent generosity and lived off yourself, not me or my late wife.”
Andre stood before the bars of the Princess’ brig, where Limey sat upon the small wooden bench within his cell. Blood from Andre’s pistol-whipping had dried on his cheek. The wound would probably leave a scar.
Limey blinked at Dubois’ appearance. The man looked like a cadaver, with hollows under his eyes, kohl smears adding to the dark shadows, and scraggly hair in need of a combing. His clothes hung limp and dirty upon his frame, and he smelled of rum.
A lot of rum.
Dubois’ descent into hell bothered Limey. After all, he had admired the pirate at one time. Could he have loved Sophie? Or, was guilt eating away at him? All he knew was, he didn’t want to be let go here, wherever here was. He wanted to avenge Sophie’s death as much as her husband did. He just had to convince the older pirate to take him. He rose and strolled over to the door, and the Frenchman. “Where are we?”
Fitting a long key into the lock, Andre glanced up. “Tortuga. Even a traitor such as you should find passage here. Hurry up, boy. I don’t have all day. I’m a busy man.”
Limey passed through the doorway, brushing against the captain and taking a delicate sniff. “I can smell just how busy you are, Captain.” Leaning against the outer bars, he crossed his arms over his chest. “What are your plans, Dubois?”
“No concern of yours, I’ll wager, mon ami. I plan on paying Le Commandant his share, and then move on to more important endeavors.” Andre swung the key ring on his wrist.
“Meaning you’re going to Formosa for revenge.”
Andre shrugged.
“Take me with you, Dubois. I want to go. I need to go. You could use me. You know you could.”
“Don’t tell me—your unrequited love requires you to make this pilgrimage, eh?” The older pirate sneered back. “Sorry, son, there’s only room on this ship for one widower, and that would be me. You’re just piss out of luck, boy. So go into town, find yourself a little trollop, close your eyes while you pound your seed into her, and pretend she’s my wife. Compendre?”
That was too much. Limey shot out a fist with a guttural growl, lunging forward. Only the reflexes of the very agile or the very drunk saved the captain from a broken nose. He danced backward with a vile laugh before swinging up the ladder and out the hatch.
His parting words drifted back to Limey. “Get off my ship, Monsieur, if you know what is good for you."
It was useless, Limey decided, to talk any sense into the drunken pirate. He, Limey, would just have to find another way to vindicate his late captain. With an idea already forming, and leaving a wide berth between him and Dubois, he made his way off the Jade Princess, meeting up with Cook and McFarlane departing the ship as well. Their loyalty to their dead captain made it untenable to remain on the Dubois’s ship any longer.
~*~
Wending his way through Madame Thibodaux’s house of ill repute in the Vieux Carré a few days later, Andre nodded and lifted a weak hand at various partners from visits past. He had no intention of bedding any of the girls, though many his crewmembers were at this moment doing exactly that."
He conceded that his perpetual state of inebriation was partly the cause of his lack of desire. However, he suspected he could not be with a woman because he would picture Sophie under him, and that was so
mething he could not face. He already saw her everywhere, most often in his broken sleep. Becoming shit-faced drunk was his only escape from her sapphire eyes and pleading expression.
He made his way to the inner access of his father’s residence instead. As usual, he went straight to Louis’s study. He found Le Commandant seated at his desk with ocean charts spread before him. Pausing in the doorway, Andre cleared his throat, setting down the bottle of rum he carried onto a nearby breakfront. His father looked up with a smile and rose from his chair.
“Andy, m’boy, you’re back.”
“Aye, Papa. I am.”
“What’s the occasion? Not that you need an occasion to visit your dear old father.” He looked about, faded eyes sharpening. “Where’s that beauty I shackled you with, hmm? She left you already?”
Andre froze. He felt dizzy. Hot. Cold. He closed his eyes. “She’s gone, Papa.”
“I can see that, boy. Don’t be obtuse.”
Andre took a swig from his bottle, wiped his mouth on the elbow of his dirty sleeve, and started pacing the room. “No. I mean, really gone. As in dead gone. She’s dead, Papa. I didn’t protect her. Zheng’s assassin got past me and killed her not two weeks ago.” He reached the end of the room and turned to face his father, standing straight by sheer will power. He withstood his father’s disbelieving scrutiny, waited for his response.
Stepping toward Andre, Louis frowned. “How, mon fils? How could this have happened? I am guessing you were vigilant, so, how?"
Andre swiveled about with a flare of his kerchief tails. “The assassin was a child, Papa. A child, no more than twelve, maybe thirteen. Brought on board because So-Soph-my wife’s first mate found him homeless. Zheng is recruiting children now. No one suspected a child. But now I am going to kill him.”
He felt his father’s disbelieving gaze on him as he paced the room. “The assassin got away?”
Andre shook his head. “No. I shot him dead immediately. No, after we gather supplies here in La Nouvelle-Orléans we set sail for Formosa, and retribution.”
The Pirate's Bride Page 18
