The Pirate's Jewel

by Cheryl Howe

  Wayland rubbed his chin. “The eyes. Surely you saw him in the eyes. That’s an unusual shade of green.”

  “Bellamy was a monster. All I saw in his eyes were greed and death.”

  Wayland made the sign of the cross, an act that seemed superstitious rather than pious. “Don’t speak ill of the dead, lad.” He raised his hands in surrender. “Though I ain’t harboring no ill will against you. Can’t be two cocks in the ring without trouble.”

  Nolan rubbed his forehead. The pungent flavor of the past was as strong as the day he’d left Nassau. Hiding out for years hadn’t softened it at all. “If you want to join me, you have to follow my rules. No more talk of Bellamy or piracy. Those days are gone. I’m going to be a privateer, and my loyalty is to the colonies.”

  “I’ll join you. But I won’t lie to you. My loyalty lies with finding the treasure—and I want my share. I’ll follow your orders ’cause you’re the captain, but I’ll leave the moralizing to you, Nolan.”

  Nolan wasn’t sure if he had won or lost the confrontation. He really had no choice. He couldn’t leave Wayland in Charles Town now that the man knew about Jewel. Besides, Wayland was the finest carpenter he had ever known. In battle, his young recruit would be useless. Wayland had experience and knowledge. And, on board the Integrity, Nolan could keep him under his thumb. It was always better to keep your enemies close.

  He downed the rest of his ale and stood. “I expect you aboard the Integrity at dawn. Do you want to come with me now, or will I see you in the morning?”

  Wayland winked. “You’ll see me in the morning. I have a few goodbyes to say, if you know what I mean.”

  Nolan put on his gloves. “I’ll talk to Jewel again and try to get the map from her before we leave. I’ll approach her differently this time.” Not that he knew what his approach would be, but he had to have the map. He no longer had the luxury of waiting Jewel out. For the second time in their acquaintance, her life was at stake and only Nolan could protect her.

  Wayland tilted his head, studying him. “Got a soft spot for Bellamy’s chit, do you?”

  Nolan wished. A soft spot would be a lot easier to handle. “I have to get the map, don’t I?” He grabbed his coat and punched his arm into the sleeve, acutely aware of Wayland’s scrutiny.

  “Aye. And I bet you know just how to get the map, don’t you, Nolan? You always had a way with the ladies.” The pirate downed his ale and signaled the barmaid for another.

  “Things have changed.”

  Wayland grinned. “But you haven’t.”

  Nolan turned and walked away. Let Wayland think what he wanted. Maybe he would get so drunk he’d forget about their little visit.

  Not bloody likely.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nolan secured the skiff and hauled himself up the rope ladder dangling near the water. “Mr. Tyrell,” he shouted as he cleared the railing. “Raise anchor. We’re setting sail within the half hour. There’s a press gang on shore.”

  They had no choice but to leave without the map. He had not set a single foot upon Queen Street’s cobblestoned surface before he’d turned back at the sight of three marines dragging a man toward the wharf. No doubt that was what the British visit to the Quail and Queen had been about yesterday. They’d been searching for deserters, as well as men to take the place of any missing crew members who weren’t located. It was not an uncommon occurrence.

  Unfortunately, Nolan’s anchorage wasn’t remote enough to spare him from being included in such a search. He couldn’t chance being discovered with a vessel outfitted for war instead of trade. Until he had a letter of marque, his vessel could cause him to be charged with treason or piracy.

  Nolan tugged on the lines that lifted the skiff out of the water. He didn’t turn to locate his eager lieutenant. Parker Tyrell had a knack of gravitating to him.

  “That’s illegal. How can they do that?” the man’s voice said behind him.

  With the help of the block and tackle, the skiff reached the ship’s railing in a few yanks. Parker helped Nolan haul the small boat over the side.

  “They’re doing it. I don’t imagine it’s too hard to find a Tory magistrate to back their press warrants.”

  “It’s war, then. The press is only legal during war.”

  Nolan hoped he had learned to hide his emotions better than Parker. They were not but a handful of years apart in age, but he felt ancient in his former pupil’s presence.

  “I don’t know if it’s war, but I want to get the hell out of here before I find out from a British press gang. Take a deep breath, Lieutenant. We have a long road ahead of us.”

  Parker pushed back the heavy strand of blond hair that had come loose from his perfect queue and straightened his already straight coat. What the man lacked in experience, he made up in enthusiasm. His painfully neat appearance and boyishly pretty face always reassured Nolan. No one would ever mistake him for a pirate.

  “Aye, Captain. I’ll ready the ship to sail.” Parker had to sidestep Wayland to go about his duties. Wayland held his ground while Parker deviated from his path. The telling moment confirmed Nolan’s fears. Wayland fit with the Integrity's crew as well as Blackbeard’s ghost would fit at one of Nolan’s father’s Sunday services, severed head in hand.

  “I know fifty men with more experience than that whelp,” the pirate said, strolling toward Nolan with his hands in his pockets. He had not taken any of Nolan’s suggestions to tie back his long stringy hair, remove his earring or wear an eye patch. Even though a black patch conjured up visions of pirates, it was better than the alternative. A hollow eye socket was better than the alternative.

  “I imagine all the men you know are either British deserters, pirates or both. Parker’s not as young as he looks. He’s also honest.”

  Nolan strode to the navigator’s station, hoping Wayland wouldn’t follow. Without a master sailor, Nolan had to do the navigation himself—another skill obtained from Bellamy. His old mentor had created a wonderful captain in Nolan, but an awful man. Nolan had spent the last five years of his life correcting the damage.

  When he reached the small cabin used for navigation situated on the main deck, Wayland squeezed in behind him. Nolan unfurled a large map, smoothing out the wrinkles with the palm of his hand. He picked up a set of dividers, marking the fastest route back to Boston.

  “You haven’t lost your touch, Nolan. A born sailor you are. That lieutenant of yours isn’t much younger than you, but he doesn’t have near what you have. And honesty won’t keep us from getting killed, lad.”

  Nolan concentrated on his calculations, ignoring the pirate. The discipline gained in his theological studies these past years had enhanced his navigational skills rather than leaving them rusty. And his stint as schoolmaster had given him much-needed patience, something he’d require to deal with Wayland now without losing his temper. Nolan’s father had been disappointed when Nolan returned from the university with his ministerial degree in hand yet not eager to follow in his footsteps and be ordained, but establishing a school for those of the merchant class who desired higher education for their sons and couldn’t afford a private tutor mollified him somewhat. He’d even stopped commenting on Nolan’s occasional visits to the harbor to gaze longingly at the ships.

  “You’re welcome to leave if you don’t approve of my crew,” he said to Wayland in his calm yet stern schoolmaster voice.

  “No, lad, I wouldn’t leave you. It’s plain to me you need more help than I expected.” The old pirate slapped Nolan on the back, hard. His gaunt frame belied his strength. “So, did you get the map?”

  Nolan straightened. “No. The British were swarming the docks, picking up anyone they could find to impress. I thought it best we leave—for now.” Besides, this would give Jewel time to realize he wouldn’t be swayed into taking her with him. Though he hated to leave her at the mercy of the life she’d been handed, and though he feared his defense of her had only encouraged the British officer to be more aggressive the
next time he saw her, she seemed to be able to handle herself well enough. Nolan was the one who’d almost ignited the situation by not maintaining a cool head. She’d sent him packing without the thing he’d come for.

  Wayland rubbed his gray, stubbled chin. “Maybe I should talk to the chit.”

  The pencil in Nolan’s hand snapped. “Stay away from her.”

  Wayland held up his hands in surrender. “Didn’t know it was like that between you two. I just planned to talk to her, not purchase her services.”

  “What do you know about Bellamy’s daughter?” Nolan braced himself for the worst. He’d not wanted to think the British officer had reason to proposition her so openly. Thinking she was available to all of Charles Town startled Nolan with a surge of violence.

  “Calm down, boy. You’re going to hurt yourself. Don’t know nothing but what you told me. I haven’t been in Charles Town near a fortnight myself.”

  “Then don’t spread malicious gossip that will cause the girl harm. She’s not safe with the map as it is.”

  Wayland laughed. “My lips are as tight as a dead man’s grip. Always have been, so don’t go accusing me of causing the girl trouble. I’m not the one who—”

  Nolan slammed his finger in the drawer as he stowed his instruments. “Damn!”

  Wayland crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the curved planks of the cabin. “I can see you’re upset about not getting the map. Sounds like Bellamy’s girl’s a little tougher than you expected. Instead of treating her like a pampered miss, we should send someone with a little backbone. I met this fella in an alley off Bay Street—”

  “If you breathe a word about her to anyone, I promise I’ll gut you.” Nolan took a step around the desk to shake Wayland in the event the man thought it an idle threat. Wayland’s knowing smirk stopped him. Nolan unballed the fist he hadn’t realized he’d readied and calmly returned to the task of rolling up his map. How easily he’d reverted to his old ways made his hands shake. “I don’t want her hurt. A soon as I get the map from her—and I will, once she realizes her options are limited—I’m going to move her to Boston so she can start a new life.” He hadn’t intended to bring Jewel to his mother and her entourage of Presbyterian matrons, but the idea seemed the only way to guarantee her safety.

  He turned to leave, but Wayland blocked the door. He had a grin on his face Nolan didn’t like.

  “I think that’s real gentlemanly of you, the way you’re taking such care with the chit. But I warn you, I think she might have some of her sire in her. It might take more than a little coin to get the map.”

  Pushing past Wayland would be effortless, but Nolan wasn’t about to start physically bullying his crew. He didn’t have to. His authority came from respect, honor, and a common goal. Yet those things had no meaning for John Wayland. Maybe that was why Nolan had the strong desire to wipe the smirk off the pirate’s face with something he did understand—violence.

  Yet the man was right. Jewel wanted more than money. Not unlike other women her age, she aimed to boost herself from her circumstances. Of course, in Jewel’s case, an honorable proposition wasn’t likely, even if she did claim to have a suitor. She’d apparently shunned the idea of marriage for another romantic delusion regarding buried treasures and pirates. Though Nolan could understand the misconception easily enough—he’d been snared in the same way when he’d first found his grandfather’s map—he’d not let Jewel be devastated by her own illusions. And the surest way to accomplish that was to take the map from her once and for all. Not that she’d thank him for it.

  He jerked his head up, reminding himself a second time that he didn’t want her gratitude. Wayland propped himself against the closed portal, apparently enraptured with the sight of his turmoil. Unable to tolerate the mangled pirate’s knowing smirk, Nolan shoved past him to escape the small cabin and his own thoughts. He took a deep breath when he reached the main deck. The sound of sails rippling in the wind invigorated him. A breeze lifted his hair and cooled the back of his neck. He tamped down his temper, but the effect was short-lived.

  Wayland dogged his heels. “Hey, lad, if you show the girl what you’re made of, you’ll get her where you want her. Young girls like a firm hand.” He winked, as if Nolan didn’t immediately get a clear picture of his meaning.

  “Mr. Wayland, you will address me as Captain Kenton. If you want me to show you what I’m made of, I’ll be glad to keelhaul you once we’re at sea. Right now we’re all rather busy.” Nolan gritted his teeth. “See to your duties.”

  “Aye, Captain—but I suspect you’re going to have your hands full once we set sail.”

  Nolan didn’t stop Wayland when the man strolled to the bow and found a comfortable position to sun himself instead of helping haul up sails. Though many of his crew were inexperienced seamen, a trait Nolan had overlooked, he would rather perform the physical labor himself than tolerate the pirate’s presence. Teaching his eager crew all they needed to know would be easier than finding experienced seamen who’d never given in to the lure of smuggling or piracy at least once or twice. Not that it wasn’t possible, just not probable.

  As the Integrity reached the open sea, Nolan’s troubled thoughts faded. Under the task of helping his crew learn the ropes, even the slow going due to the men’s inexperience didn’t detract from Nolan’s pleasure at being under a rippling sail and fighting a changing wind. His happiness proved short-lived, however, when a British man-of-war on their starboard easily overtook them.

  A speaking trumpet was used by the captain of the Neptune with a request to come aboard. Nolan took it for what it was: a command rather than a request. Considering the skill of his crew, outmaneuvering the British was not an option. Besides, tension ran high since Lexington and Concord. Any further resistance shown by Colonials was likely to ignite an incident. Though Nolan was anxious for war, he didn’t want to be the fuse that set it off.

  The Second Continental Congress had recently convened and provisions for an army would be one of its main topics. In a meeting with the Sons of Liberty before he’d departed to retrieve the map, Nolan agreed that restraint would be best until the more conservative colonies could be brought into the line of thinking of the more radical Massachusetts. Many held out hope for a peaceful reconciliation with England while others, like Nolan, already realized an armed conflict was the only solution.

  Wayland marched up to Nolan, distracting him from his study of the Neptune. Even if he had not been persuaded to refrain from open hostility, the firepower of the British vessel would have dissuaded him from taking them on. The man-of-war outgunned him thirty-six cannons to eighteen.

  “What the hell ye be doing? I woke up from me nap to find a warship cuddled up next to us. Man your cannons, boy,” yelled Wayland directly into Nolan’s ear.

  Nolan rubbed the offended appendage but remained calm. “This is a peaceful boarding, not a battle.”

  “What was all that talk of freedom and war about? You ain’t going to get what you want if you roll over and show your belly.”

  That Nolan somewhat agreed didn’t help his mood. “Once all the colonies agree that armed conflict is the only way to solve our grievances with England, I’ll be more than willing to act. For now, we keep the peace as much as we are able.”

  “You’re a disgrace to your grandfather. I can tell you that.” Wayland shook his head and stomped off. Nolan could only pray he intended to go below to avoid the British.

  A rope ladder was tossed to the waterline, and Nolan stood with hands clasped behind his back while he submitted to several burly sailors heaving themselves over his ship’s side. An instinct from his old life urged him to reach for his sword, but all he had strapped to his waist now was a sharp knife used for cutting rigging in emergencies. When he’d sailed with Bellamy, they’d never let another crew board their vessel. Now, regular seamen hauled their superior officer, a bloated, blue-coated lieutenant, onto the deck.

  Lieutenant Greeley swung his jaundi
ced gaze in Nolan’s direction, and Nolan knew this to be the first true test of his reformed nature. He would not order Greeley cut down. He took consolation in the fact that the marine officer, Devlin, had not joined this particular boarding party. Not that that was likely, since marines were only used for land missions.

  Nolan mustered every last shred of self-control he had and met Greeley’s hostile recognition with a placid gaze. More important than proving to himself how much he had changed, staying calm and conciliatory was good common sense. A battle would be a massacre. Even still, a pirate would rather die than submit to this type of authority.

  “Captain, is it?” Greeley buttoned his blue coat over the bulge in his middle and looked down his bulbous nose at Nolan—quite a feat, considering Nolan stood a head above him. Apparently that was all the acknowledgment Greeley thought he deserved. “Very well. Call your crew on deck. Let’s see what you have.”

  “I’ll see your press warrant, sir.” Nolan almost convinced even himself with his bland tone that being ordered about didn’t bother him.

  “But of course, Captain.” Lieutenant Greeley made a show of reaching in his pocket and gallantly handing over the papers. “Can you read, or shall I read them for you?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Nolan quickly scanned the document, before instructing Parker to assemble the crew.

  Greeley spoke up. “I’ll send my men to assist your crewman. Once our arrival is made known, sailors have a way of becoming scarce.”

  One particular member of his crew whom Nolan wished would hide appeared. He snatched the document from Nolan’s hand. “Let me see that.” Wayland stared hard at the press warrant with his good eye.

  Nolan suspected the flowing script was unintelligible to Wayland, because Wayland’s brown eye bobbed up and down instead of left to right.

  “By what right be you stealing our crew? You pudding eating lads ain’t at war with Spain again? If so, I might be joining ya. Got a debt I’m owing to a Spaniard.” Wayland leered at Lieutenant Greeley with his ice blue eye.