Across Captive Seas

by Michele du Barry

  “So you know the man?”

  “Man? Monster is more the word!” And Captain Darnell stomped off totally ignoring a further string of questions Angela flung after him.

  “Damn the man, as uncommunicative as a clam,” she complained to Angus. “Well, this will mean another month’s delay—or more. I suppose we will have to wait to talk to the busy Captain Darnell later! If only he wasn’t such a good captain, then I wouldn’t put up with such—such insubordination!”

  Angus couldn’t help smiling. There were always bound to be confrontations when two such strong-willed individuals met. Hadn’t he witnessed more than enough clashes between Scott and Angela in the past? And he was certain there would be more—as sure as the heather bloomed in the Highlands.

  So the Dark Lady was repaired and provisioned while Captain Darnell’s arm had a chance to heal from the wound acquired defending the ship. He spent the time overseeing the work and getting his charts in order for the gruelling voyage. It would be no picnic, that he knew. Although never sailing to Australia before, he had sailed the Pacific as first mate and the going had been rough. A cyclone had almost sunk the ship and they had spent several months on a tropical island for repairs.

  That interval had been one of the most enjoyable he could remember with long, sunlit days and dusky, scantily clad native women for companions. They were so uncomplicated and generous, beautiful in their own exotic way. The lovemaking had been sinfully delicious and free.

  Edward Darnell muttered beneath his breath thrusting a chart angrily into its place in his cramped desk. He had been to Bluehills more times than he could count and each time he saw Angela he felt his feelings slipping more and more. She was too lovely for her own good—and his. The sea had always been his life, but Angela could make him forget even that. And she knew what was happening although neither one of them spoke and he kept his distance. Stay away, her unforgettable eyes warned, just making him want her more.

  He knew all the stories about her, had rehashed them a thousand times in his mind. But what entrancing woman didn’t have a dubious past? Her string of dead lovers and the fact that she was married to his friend made him behave; after all seagoing men were known for their superstitions. The thought of the long months together aboard the Dark Lady had frazzled his nerves already and slamming his cabin door Captain Darnell headed for the closest brothel.

  Chapter Eleven

  They were moving at last, skimming free and easy over the gently rolling Caribbean. Angela stood with her feet firmly planted on the deck, her face wreathed in smiles. The deep-hued blues of the ocean and sky were two things she never tired of and their familiar hazy merging at the horizon sent a thrill through her. Finally, bound for Australia, for Scott! The Dark Lady was as good as new, freshly painted and repaired, flying like a bird before the wind.

  Could anything be more beautiful than a sailing ship with all its sails unfurled and curved beneath the breath of the wind? How majestically it danced upon the waters, trailing a froth of white foam in its wake. It was a live thing: the sounds of creaking sails and screeching gulls; the men shouting from the rigging; the tangy smell of the salt air and a distant whiff of a tropical island; the feeling of the waves rocking it like a baby in its mother’s arms; the sight of sun, sky, water, and occasionally a passing ship or land mass. The total experience was exhilarating and Angela stood there by the hour drinking it all in, heedless of the sun kissing her nose with pink.

  Ezra joined her smiling broadly, then laughing. “It’s wonderful! Now I feel really free! Somehow the whole time in Jamaica I didn’t. I was always looking over my shoulder to see if dogs were after me.”

  “I know,” she said as the sun slipped lower in the sky turning into a huge reddish-pink pomegranate. “Just think, out there somewhere is our destiny!” She swept her arm toward the ever distant horizon.

  “And do you know what yours is?”

  “Oh, yes! I think I have always known, ever since Scott appeared out of the mist on a black stallion looking like the devil himself! Could I have only been fifteen? So much has happened since then, so many wasted years.”

  “Are years or experiences ever wasted?” mused Ezra. “I think not—even the worst. Somehow we muddle through and grow and learn from what went before.”

  “Even being a slave?”

  “Even that,” he said with a grimace. “Oh, it’s painful at the time but afterwards we can look back and laugh at the most harrowing things. Besides, I would never have met you if I hadn’t been a slave in Jamaica. That would have been a great loss.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t Irish?” laughed Angela as he turned a puzzled look in her direction.

  “As a matter of fact my father was part Irish. Why?”

  “Because you are full of blarney!”

  And they stood there laughing as the sun fractured the sky with its flaming, dying rays.

  The gray watery light of dawn woke her, creeping insidiously in the small curtained window. Angela sat up, the ship heaved violently and she banged her head against the bunk. Clinging to the bunk she rubbed the lump rising beneath her loose black hair and came wide awake as a tremendous explosion thundered and shook the whole ship.

  A storm? An accident? Another explosion and shouting from the deck and Angela knew what was happening. Pirates! They were under attack! Wrapping her robe about her she slid her feet into her slippers and ran up to the deck. Men swarmed over the deck and rigging and she clutched a hand tightly over her mouth as the Dark Lady's cannon answered the frigate bearing down upon them. It had appeared suddenly from behind a cay, a ghost ship painted blue-gray with gray sails. In the early morning light it was virtually invisible except at close range.

  “Get below and lock the door!” shouted a passing Captain Darnell giving her a shove. “It’s Gaston Laporte—the damned Frenchy and he’s hell-bent on sinking us!”

  On shaking legs Angela made her way back to her cabin pounding on the door next to it occupied by Molly and the children.

  “Molly, Molly! It’s me—open the door!”

  With a gurgle of fright Molly stood aside as Angela rushed into the room and encompassed the frightened children in her arms. “It’s all right, my babies. We are being chased by pirates but they will be gone soon. . .”

  “Pirates!” shouted Lorna reviving instantly. “I want to go on deck and fight them myself.”

  “Me too,” echoed Robert unsure of what was going on.

  “Molly, get them dressed. There’s no telling what will happen. I have to get some clothes on—then come to my cabin.”

  With clumsy fingers she pulled on her garments cursing as the ship maneuvered and threw her about the cabin. The same pirate that had attacked the ship twice before was trying again. Thrusting the pardon into her bodice she buttoned it up to her neck and then pulled on her boots. No time to do more than tie her hair out of the way with a ribbon before turning her attention to her pistols.

  Molly and the children scurried into her cabin and the maid locked the door, terror shining in her brown eyes. Robert and Lorna watched fascinated as their mother deftly loaded the two gleaming pistols inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The sound of cannons and guns was deafening but above that was the sound of the wounded and dying. Where was Ezra and Angus? Probably on deck helping with whatever they could. Angela wished she could go and help but above all the children must be protected and if the worst came she might be the only one capable of that.

  With Molly’s help they pushed a trunk in front of the door and Angela shoved her dresses out of the way making the children hide in the built-in closet. Her heart thudded against her ribs. If only she knew what was happening above.

  The ship lurched and thuds sounded then the clash of rapiers. They had been boarded by a band of buccaneers and Molly huddled on the disordered bunk pulling the covers over her head. Angela stood as far from the door as possible but in a line that made her aim sure. She had only two shots and what would occur after that she tried no
t to think about. Surely they would hold such valuable passengers for ransom.

  A sickening thud sounded on the door, then more and Angela braced herself for battle. Stifled sobs came from the cowering Molly as the lock sheared off the door and splintering wood banged against the trunk. Angela swallowed the dry lump in her throat and took a deep breath.

  The trunk gave way slowly against the persistent barrage and the first filthy pirate into the cabin jerked in surprise as a crimson flower of blood bloomed on his chest. Spewing blood from his mouth he fell and Angela saw that the ball had passed through him and winged one of the men beyond. A frozen calm descended on her as she shoved the pistol at Molly telling her to reload it. Her unexpected attack had momentarily stopped the flow of buccaneers into the cabin.

  Molly just sat staring at the pistol and angrily Angela grabbed it from her hurriedly reloading. A shot was fired into the cabin and Angela fell to the floor making herself as small a target as possible. Another shot followed and Molly began screaming.

  “Women!” came the shout from outside and Angela gritted, her teeth against the impulse to slap her maid soundly. There were other voices in French and English that she couldn’t quite make out and then a slight movement in the shadowed doorway.

  Angela lay unmoving until the man, confident that there would be no more resistance or perhaps imagining her wounded, became foolhardy and showed himself. Moving as smoothly as a coiled cobra she took aim and fired, the ball catching him in the stomach. He fell backward out the door screeching in agony and was hauled unceremoniously out of the way by unseen hands. Frantically she began reloading again but before she could finish a numbing pain burst in her shoulder and the pirates rushed the cabin together.

  She killed the first man in with her one remaining shot, then used the smoking pistol as a weapon, cracking the nearest skull. For a full five minutes she was loose in the cabin like a concentrated hurricane inflicting blows, kicks, scratches and bites on anyone foolhardy enough to come within range. The pirates were baffled at first by the tiny, pink-ruffled witch that fought like an Amazon.

  She held them off longer than she had thought possible but her strength was giving out and at any moment she would be at their mercy. Angela tripped on her flying skirts as one of the crew made a grab for her and she went down heavily. They were on her immediately, cruelly hauling her to her feet and twisting her arms behind her.

  “What spirit! How would ya like to lie with that spitfire?”

  “Damned good piece,” said a large straggly-haired man with no front teeth, running an expert hand appraisingly over her body. He grasped the top of her bodice but another voice rang out.

  “Enough!” A wiry little Frenchman limped stiffly into the cabin, his thin brown face horribly scarred. Angela shuddered at the scar that ran from temple to chin distorting one eye and drawing the corner of his mouth down in an evil grimace. His cold, almost colorless green eyes glittered appreciatively as he inspected the she-devil that had held his men off for so long. He had watched the whole battle from the shadowed safety of the doorway while Angela had made laughingstocks out of his men.

  “Your name?” he asked tipping her defiant chin up with one long finger.

  Haughtily she replied, “Angela Harrington, Duchess of Brightling!”

  The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened in a travesty of a smile and he loosed peals of dry harsh laughter. Sweeping her a mocking bow he said, “Enchanted, Your Grace. I never thought my coup would yield such a prize. Gaston Laporte at your service!” Running a hand through his thin, wispy brown hair he continued immensely pleased with himself, “You don’t know how happy I am to make your acquaintance.”

  “Will you hold me for ransom?” she asked hopefully, very much aware of the sticky warmth spreading down her arm.

  “But of course! Release her you swine, and never let me catch any of you touching her again!”

  With the support gone Angela slumped against the bunk clutching her shoulder.

  “You are wounded,” Laporte observed touching her fleetingly and she shrank away from his hand sensing a viciousness in him.

  “I have two children and my servants,” Angela began.

  “Tant mieux!" Laporte rubbed his hands together in an irritatingly effeminate gesture. “And where is your—husband?”

  “He is not with me on this trip. I was to meet him later.”

  Laporte gave a Gallic shrug of his shoulders. “C’est la vie. Perhaps he will be my guest at another time.”

  As Angela was escorted on deck leaning on Molly and with the children clinging to her skirts she looked around desperately for Angus, Ezra, and Captain Darnell. Bodies lay everywhere and the deck was slippery with blood as the pirates expertly looted the Dark Lady.

  “Mama—look!” Robert pointed to the yardarm where a body dangled like a puppet from a rope, twisting and turning in the wind. It was Captain Darnell.

  They stumbled over a severed arm and the children’s eyes were as large as saucers at the total devastation surrounding them. A sudden commotion broke out as a wounded man revived and began fighting anew. Blood streamed over his head and face obscuring his features, and several burly pirates hefted him and strode to the railing. Feebly he struggled.

  “Angus! Angus!” screamed Angela with an outraged shriek of terror. “No! Don’t let them!”

  She rushed at them with what little strength she had left but was too late. Deftly they tossed Angus over the side and he landed with a splash in the sea. Angela leaned over the side clinging to the railing shouting his name over and over. He surfaced and she felt a momentary relief, replaced by dread as he went under again.

  The men who had thrown him overboard laughed and pointed to the triangular fins breaking the surface of the waves. She stared in panic as they circled closer and closer and then he was jerked beneath the water again and again like a bobbing cork. A hoarse cry broke from his throat as he went under for the last time leaving behind the churning crimson ocean amid a frenzy of fins.

  Angela’s grip loosened on the railing and she would have pitched forward into the sea if Laporte hadn’t grabbed her just in time. As it was she slid to the deck in a faint, her face as pale as the death that surrounded her.

  Two aquamarine eyes opened, focused on the high ceiling in confusion and then swept slowly around the unfamiliar room. The bedroom was an opulent hodgepodge of exquisite furniture. A French writing desk stood daintily beneath an open window, a dark massive armoire was obviously Spanish and the four-poster bed and chairs were English. A magnificent Oriental carpet in bright jewel-like colors of red, blue, yellow, green, and brown covered the terra cotta tile floor. One white stucco wall was hung with an antique tapestry of medieval ladies, sheep, and thousands of flowers. On either side of the arched, carved wood door were glass curio cabinets containing priceless objects of art.

  Angela pushed aside the mosquito netting and winced as a pain throbbed in her shoulder. A constricting bandage met her inquisitive touch beneath her sheer lawn nightgown. In an instantaneous flash the fog cleared and she sat bolt upright oblivious to her wound. She could see the boiling scarlet water, a purple-faced corpse swinging by its neck high above her head, blood washing over the deck of the Dark Lady like a high tide, pirates bursting through her cabin door. Everyone was dead but Molly, the children, and herself and they were in the clutches of the notorious Gaston Laporte.

  Her sorrow quickly gave way to anger and she dashed the tears from her eyes. There would be time enough for crying later, right now she must find a way out of this new predicament. Trying the door Angela found it locked as she had known it would be. She looked out a large high window by standing on a chair to find she was on the second floor of a large Spanish-style house built around a central courtyard. In the center of the high-walled courtyard a fountain splashed and chairs and tables were scattered invitingly over the large flagstones. The late afternoon sun cast deep shadows burnishing the dull orange tiled roof.

  Angel
a almost fell off the chair as a choking panic shook her. Where were the clothes she had been wearing and most importantly where was the pardon she had so hastily concealed in her bodice? She ran around the room in a flurry, finding nothing, but when she flung open the doors of the armoire there were all her clothes hanging there as neatly as if she had always lived there. On the shelf was her jewelry box and she opened it to find the contents intact and she wondered why Laporte hadn’t plundered it. Swiftly opening drawers she found her undergarments and accessories and pushed them aside impatiently. Where was the pardon?

  The tapestry billowed away from the wall and Angela stifled a scream as Molly slid from behind it.

  “Milady, what are you doing out of bed?”

  “Is there a door behind there?” asked Angela going to investigate.

  Sure enough there was a door concealed by the tapestry. Angela opened it to find it led to another bedroom where Robert and Lorna played together. The thick walls had kept any sound from penetrating her room.

  “Mama!” they both cried in unison, their faces lighting up at the sight of her.

  Thank heavens they were fine. Angela dropped to her knees cuddling both of them in her embrace. Nothing must be allowed to harm her precious children, nothing, and she would somehow see to their safety no matter what she had to do. Her shoulder was beginning to hurt and Molly made her get back into bed assuring Angela that she had only sustained a flesh wound.

  “Molly, did you undress me?” The maid nodded.“

  The papers—where are they?”

  “I’ve hidden them,” Molly answered with a secretive smile. Leaning closer to Angela she whispered, “I sewed it into your petticoat—the one with blue flowers embroidered on it.”

  “Bring it here!” said Angela, eagerly reaching for the frothy confection Molly unearthed from the armoire. “Very clever,” she complimented, able to tell where it was by only a slight thickness beneath the ruffles and the stiffness of the paper.