Twenty-two cannons
boomed. The merchantman’s mainmast shattered and splinters
hailed the deck. Another shot from the barque burst the forecastle
and sent sailors flying. Everywhere men lay dead and dying
from the pirates’ assault. The foremast buckled and crashed
to the deck. The torn and burning sails fell loose and swathed
the bow. From the aft cabin Miranda watched the shape of
the wounded captain moving feebly beneath the sheet; soon
he did not move at all. The bombardment ceased and in the
sudden calm Miranda heard the rush of water into the hull,
the groans and wails of the dying sailors, and the creak
of oars in locks.
This last
sound set her heart racing. She peered through the porthole,
and too, too close, three large boats freighted with dark
and desperate men crossed from the barque to her own sinking
ship, oars dipping into the placid Caribbean sea. The pirates
drew near; she could make them out now. A rogue with a
long musket stood in the prow of the forward boat, scanning
the deck for survivors. Miranda shuddered at the sight
of him. He was tall and broad, with one milky eye and a
bald scalp leathery and brown from the sun. A cutlass hung
at his waist, tucked into a green silk sash.
“What are we to
do?” Nona bawled. “Mistress, what are we to do?” She sobbed
and wrung her hands. Her face was red from two weeks of crying.
From Bristol to the Caribbean she had wept silently over
Miranda’s imminent marriage: “Oh, my wee baby girl,” she
said time and time again, shaking her head and annoying Miranda
beyond telling. “Oh, my darling lass.” Then her crying became
intense and urgent when the captain sighted the red flag
and commanded full speed and battle stations. Nona’s sobs
leapt to deranged shrieks when the first broadside crashed
into the ship, and now she sputtered like a dying flame. “Do
we conceal ourselves below and hope they pass? Or—do we destroy
ourselves, mistress, before they, before those rough men…” She
trailed off.
Miranda seized
a bulkhead as the ship listed suddenly. “We’re taking on
water,” she said. “We can’t conceal ourselves, Nona! The
ship will plunge under the sea and take us with it.”
“A better end
than whatever those brigands plot!” Nona dabbed her eyes. “I
would rather see that, mistress, than you in their foul,
wicked hands. Let the sea take us!”
“I have no wish
to die. And I won’t.” Miranda said it simply, and knew it
for a truth. “In two weeks, Nona, I’ll be Mr. Fraser’s wife
and mistress of Averslay, and you’ll be couched in luxury.
Don’t talk of death. I won’t allow it.” She closed and barred
the door while she spoke.
Nona smiled for
the first time since Bristol. “Oh, mistress. And my divan.”
“Of course, good
Nona.” Miranda heard footsteps on the deck and raised her
voice to cover them. “I’ll have it stuffed with hibiscus
blooms if you like! And a servant of your own! Never work
again, good Nona!”
From outside a
shouted command: “Stove it in!” And a thundering crash of
metal against wood. Nona shrieked. The door shook, but the
bar held. Nona held out her arms and Miranda flew to them.
“Pray with me,
mistress, pray!”
“No need, no need.
We’ll live, Nona.”
“You’ll die this
day, lass, and never prayed a word in your life.”
Miranda pursed
her lips but said nothing. She didn’t flinch, not once, as
the door shattered under the blows and the bald man strode
into the little cabin, brandishing his cutlass. Nona clung
to Miranda as a drowning man to a piece of lumber. She twisted
out of Nona’s grasp and lifted her chin in defiance. “I am
Miranda Davenport,” she said, and her voice had never rung
so clear or so proud, “daughter of Sir Richard Davenport
of Gloucester. Affianced to Samuel Fraser, captain in His
Majesty’s Royal Navy.”
The pirate bowed
low. “Captain Joshua Barclay,” he said, “of no nation and
no king, at your service.” A redheaded man appeared in the
doorway behind him. He wore a tattered blue Navy jacket,
and his beard was full and bushy. He eyed Miranda. “And this
here’s Frederick Wickliff, bosun, Royal Navy—retired.” Wickliff
nodded. Nona moaned, and irritation flickered across Barclay’s
face.
“Captain,” Miranda
said, “I have made you familiar with my position. I hope
I can trust you to deliver me safely to the nearest port.
You will be amply rewarded, of course, for—”
Barclay cut her
off with a wave. “Say no more, lass,” he said, and Miranda
smiled. “You’ll bore me to tears. Aye, you’ll come with me.
A sweeting like you, to have and to hold.” He gripped Miranda’s
wrist. Her nails raked his face, gouging long red slashes
across from brow to cheek. Barclay howled and pressed his
hands to the wound, then took them away and saw blood. Fury
flared in him and he struck Miranda with the back of his
hand. She reeled with the powerful blow—no one had dared
strike her before—but didn’t fall. Barclay drew a small dagger
and moved on Miranda. For a moment she stared death in the
eye. Wickliff shouted, “Captain! Havana!” and Barclay returned
the dagger to its sheath.
A smile snaked
across Barclay’s face. “Right,” he said. “Havana for you.
Such a lovely face. Such fine skin, that none ever took a
knife to.” He stuck his thumbs in his sash and roared with
laughter as blood dripped down his face. “To Havana, then!” He
crooked a finger at Nona. “We’ll not be needing her. Wickliff!”
“No!” Miranda
cried. She seized a bottle from the table and sprang at Barclay,
poised to crush his tanned skull. With a laugh he disarmed
her and flung her over his shoulder. She kicked and pounded
on his broad back with her fists. He grunted.
“Keep it up, lass,
and you may not see Havana after all. You’ll just make it
to my bunk, and then it’s the knife for you. Understand?”
Miranda lay still.
She wanted to fight this man with every fiber of her being,
but her desire to live was greater. “Wickliff,” she said.
The bosun glanced
at her and looked away. Drawing his cutlass, he moved past
Barclay and into the room. His shadow fell across Nona, who
whimpered and crouched in the corner. “Wickliff, you can’t
do this!” Miranda shouted. “Bring her, too! You can’t—you
can’t!” And then Barclay was carrying her away, over the
ocean, away from Nona, from Samuel, from life, from everything.
Insensate rage
followed. Miranda lurked in a sullen fury for three days,
the image of Nona’s fear-frozen face her only company. Barclay
imprisoned her in an aft cabin, quite small, and twice a
day he or Wickliff brought her food and drink, which she
left untouched. Miranda lay on her cot, turned to the wall.
The only sounds were the babble of the sea and the no-quieter
babble of laughter and clanking dishes from the chamber adjoining
hers.
But love of life
was bright within her, and her grief quickly gave way to
anger and hatred for the men who had slain her old friend
and abducted her, and soon an ambition, hateful and necessary,
germinated like a venomous weed in her mind: vengeance. She
buried the ambition—for now. On the third day, she ate and
drank, and was alert and thinking when Wickliff brought her
meal.
“Why is it only
you and the captain wait on me?”
“Your pardon,
miss, we don’t wait on you exactly. We keep you among the
living, is all.”
“Well, why is
it only you and the captain who keep me among the living,
then?”
“I believe I’m
the only one the captain trusts to…respect you.”
The thought seemed
strangely hilarious to her, and Miranda laughed despite herself. “Trusts
you not to force me, you mean.”
Wickliff blushed.
The blush faded quickly and he said, gravely, “Yes, that’s
it exactly.” The laugh died in Miranda’s throat.
“Because you were
in the Navy? And that makes you a gentleman?”
“More so than
some others.”
“Do you miss the
Navy, Mr. Wickliff?”
“I’d have to be
a fool to miss the Navy, Miss Davenport.”
“Is it very bad
there, then?”
“Is it very bad?” Wickliff
snorted. “It’s not enough food after the purser takes his
cut. It’s ten lashes if you’re late to watch. Aye, it’s not
pleasant. In a lot of ways I’m better off now.”
“But not in every
way.”
Wickliff said
nothing for a while. “No, not in every way.”
“In the Navy,
you can anticipate a pension. Here…” She trailed off, fingering
a loose lock of her dark brown hair.
Wickliff finished
the sentence. “Nothing but a rope.” Then he grinned morbidly
and performed half a jig step. “But we’re free of tyranny,
at least! So says the captain, and his word is law. And a
rope’s a sight better than what you can anticipate, Miss
Davenport.”
“Why? What awaits
me in Havana?” Miranda tried to remain casual, but urgency
crept into the question.
“The grandest,
finest slave market in the New World, miss. Oh, don’t you
worry. You’ll get to be a plantation mistress yet, what with
your fine skin, and your dark eyes—only a planter could afford
you.”
Revulsion seized
her. To adorn the arm of some repugnant Don! “And that’s
why the captain has preserved me from the depredations of
the crew.”
“Aye. Unspoiled
you’ll fetch a higher price.”
“I don’t—I can’t
believe you. You deceive me! You slew Nona,” Miranda hissed. “Serpent.
Villain!”
Wickliff spoke
quietly. “Orders are orders, miss. I was gentle as a lamb
with her.”
Miranda laughed,
one harsh bitter laugh. “Gentle as a lamb? When you—what?
When you cut her throat, and her blood poured. When you sliced
her belly and her entrails tumbled out! When you hacked her
skull open!” Miranda collapsed in the lone chair and held
her hands palm upward, fingers curled like claws. “What did
you do? Tell me what you did!”
Wickliff looked
at the plates on the table, at the door to the cabin, at
the lamp, at his boots. Finally he said, “The captain’s getting
a trifle impatient with you, miss. Sulking does you no good
with him. I had a job of it convincing him to take you to
Havana, and if you make it hard by not eating and not drinking,
he may forget about the profit to be had. And you don’t want
that.” After a while he added, “I don’t want that.” He left
Miranda alone with her thoughts.
A shudder traveled
the length of her spine, then another, and though she fought
them tears leaked out, two by two. A single sob broke from
her lips, and she wiped the tears away, sniffing. She would
cry no more. She had more important things to do.
That night, when
the captain brought her dinner, Miranda smiled blandly for
him. She felt the smile might run away from her and widen
until it split her head open, but she kept smiling and said “thank
you” in a small and timid voice, startling Barclay momentarily.
Then he laughed: “There’s a good girl!” and stomped out.
Miranda ate, swallowing each bite with solemn duty.
Barclay delivered
her food again the following morning. He regarded her warily,
expecting some new absurdity, and again Miranda smiled and
thanked him, and again he laughed. “You’ll get on fine here,
sweeting.”
“Tell me of your
ship, captain,” she said suddenly. Miranda didn’t care a
fig about Barclay’s ship, but she knew Barclay did.
He coughed and
scratched the back of his neck with one filthy hand. “What?”
“If I’m to be
your passenger, captain, I want to know about the ship that
carries me.”
“Ah…very well.” He
massaged his nut brown scalp while he spoke. “The Ocean’s
Scourge. She’s got forty-eight guns. Three masts, aftermost
fore-and-aft rigged. Crew of twenty-nine. Fast! Doesn’t draw
much, either, so we ply the shoals. Took a Navy sloop once.
How we got Wickliff. And a merchantman out of Barbados, with
molasses by the ton.” As he spoke, Barclay relaxed perceptibly.
Soon he was sitting in the little wooden chair and telling
Miranda of a raid on Panama, and then he spoke animatedly
of outrunning Navy patrols in the Bahamas. He had a natural
love of boasting, and Miranda encouraged it with occasional
nods and impressed murmurs. Then four bells sounded and Barclay
leapt to his feet. “You got me chattering on,” he said, and
dashed from the cabin. Miranda shook her head after he left,
dispelling the memory of the loathsome man. The information
she retained.
Wickliff came
the next morning. “You occupied the captain for quite a while
yesterday,” he said.
Miranda demurred. “I
remain unspoiled.”
Wickliff laughed
shortly. “I hardly meant that, miss.” He studied her and
Miranda could see the thoughts rolling ponderously in his
head. “I don’t understand, miss, why you’d care to talk to
a man like that.”
“A man like what?
He’s your captain, Mr. Wickliff.”
“Aye. But he’s
a terror. He knows it. He wants the world to know it. Be
damned if he gives or takes quarter, he says. He wants to
shake the skies and boil the seas.”
“And what does
that mean?”
“It means blood,
buckets and barrels of blood. Like your ship. No quarter,
excepting you.”
“He’s treated
me kindly.”
Wickliff snorted. “Because
he thinks he can make a pound or two from you. The instant
he thinks otherwise, your life isn’t worth a handful of sawdust.
He’ll kill you for the sport of it. He’s mad.”
“Mad? Is he truly
insane?”
“Aye. He’d strike
the sun from the sky if he could. You just haven’t seen his
madness yet.”
“Then why serve
him?” Miranda asked breathlessly. From across the cabin,
she held her arms out to him in momentary compassion or appeal;
then she blushed faintly and withdrew them.
Wickliff stared
for a moment before replying. “Not my first choice, miss!”
“Not your choice?”
“I was impressed,
Miss Davenport. I was Navy. They take our sloop, and line
us up on the deck. Barclay scratches a line with the tip
of his cutlass and bellows, ‘All free men, cross! All others
can perish!’ What do I do then? I do what I must to survive.
I cross, my captain cursing me for a traitor and a coward—but
I’m drawing breath now, at least.”
“And the captain?”
“He didn’t cross.
Barclay cut him down.”
“And now you’re
an enemy of the Crown.”
“Aye. To see my
wife no more.”
“You are married?”
“To a baker’s
daughter in Bristol. Sweet young thing, a humble lass, not
educated and refined like yourself, madam, but goodhearted
and kind. She looks—looked after this scoundrel well enough.”
“And if you return
to her—the rope.”
“The rope,” Wickliff
echoed.
Miranda snapped
her fingers as if she had received a brilliant inspiration. “You
could obtain the King’s Pardon. The governor is quite free
with those, I understand. Mr. Fraser—my betrothed—has written
to me of such things in the past. All but the worst ruffians
can be pardoned for laying down their arms.”
“I’ve heard of
that. And there’s the rub—’all but the worst’. As long as
I sail under Barclay, I have no more hope of the King’s Pardon
than he.”
“As long as you
sail under Barclay. I judge that you are intelligent, Wickliff,
from conversing with you. I can see that you are strong.” Wickliff
shrugged modestly. “And you’re sane.” She crossed the cabin
and reached to touch his sleeve, but stopped. Wickliff stiffened. “You’re
sane,” she whispered. “That’s more than that animal has.
He’ll lead you into the jaws of hell, Wickliff. I know you
for a good man. You’ve been so kind to me.”
Wickliff shrugged,
but Miranda could see her words working on him. “The crew…” he
said.
“The crew will
follow you. Tell them of the King’s Pardon. They have to
know that Barclay’s mad. They have to fear him. They won’t
fear you; they’ll respect you.”
“And how do you
know they’ll respect me?”
Miranda clutched
his sleeve in her delicate fingers. She fingered the rough
fabric and stepped closer to him. His sunripe scent filled
her nostrils. Miranda examined the dulled brass buttons of
the coat, the worn stitching of the collar, and finally,
looked Wickliff in the eye. “Because I do,” she whispered.
Wickliff turned
aside roughly and wrenched the door open. “I have a good
many duties other than tending to you,” he said as he left.
Miranda waited
for Wickliff’s return. She examined her little prison for
the tenth time, going over every surface and object, searching
for something, anything she could use. And, for the tenth
time, she found nothing—except a rotted plank on the starboard
wall. It ran horizontally, directly under her cot, and so
she had missed it on previous inspections. Miranda scratched
at it with her fingernails and little flakes of wood tumbled
off. She took her tortoiseshell comb, one of the few possessions
Barclay had left her, and scraped the wood. She wiggled under
the cot and dug at the edge of the plank where it joined
the other. The crack between the planks widened; she put
her elbow to the rotten plank and it gave a little. She peered
through the gap: a long table, two benches, and a large chair
at the end, once grandly upholstered, now faded. The officers’ mess.
That explained the occasional laughter from next door. At
the far end, light streamed through a pair of large windows
at the very stern of the ship. She craned her neck and saw
the rolling ocean beyond—vast freedom, just feet away! Footsteps
echoed in the passage and she scrambled from beneath the
cot. She swept the crumbs of wood away with her foot and
rearranged her disheveled hair as well as possible.
Wickliff entered. “I
departed in a temper,” he said. “I apologize, Miss Davenport.”
“No apology required,” Miranda
said. “Have you essayed the crew?”
Wickliff’s red
face darkened for a moment. “Some,” he said. “The second
mate, Jenkins, might prove agreeable. He’s a Navy man, like
me, and new, at that. Picked him in a public house in Tortuga
six months ago, and he’s still right sore about it.
“The first mate,
Trent, may not be game. He’s been with the captain a lot
longer, and I think he came off a plantation—that maybe he
escaped from bondage. So he’s got nothing to go back to.
But he’s a powerful dog, quick as can be with a blade. He
and the captain together—well, I couldn’t stand before them.”
“Then you won’t,” Miranda
said. “See if Trent can be turned. If not—do what is necessary.”
Wickliff furrowed
his brow. “You don’t mean murder, miss?” Miranda said nothing. “You
do mean murder.”
“And? Is it murder
to murder a dead man? If Trent will not surrender his captain
and seek the King’s Pardon, he is a dead man. You would serve
the King’s purpose in this, and make possible the deliverance
of all your fellow crew—your fellow prisoners.” The color
drained from Wickliff’s face. “What?” Miranda was suddenly
angry. “Are you a stranger to slaughter?”
“No…no, not at
all, damn me for it!” Wickliff muttered violently. “But to
hear such words—from a lady. How coldly you condemn him!”
Miranda lifted
her pointed chin in a gesture of rebuke. “And? How they would
condemn me! Or you—when they took you, they condemned you
to death on the sea. I find it not cold but delicious indeed
to turn their cannon upon them.”
Wickliff stared,
speechless. Miranda’s anger grew. “Well? What do you have
to say? Speak, if you have a tongue!” Fury overwhelmed her
and she slapped at him. Her blow caught him across the face,
and he reeled back, startled. “Excuse yourself! Tell me how
you could slay my Nona, but not this wretch Trent! By what
reasoning do you doff the executioner’s hood now, when you
wore it so well in the past?” She struck at him again and
he raised his hands to defend himself. He advanced on her
suddenly, fist shaking, and she drew back with a cry.
“Don’t tell me
my own mind,” he said. “I know what has to be done. Do you
think I don’t know?” He ended in a shout.
“Shh, shh,” she
soothed. “I’m sorry, Wickliff, I’m sorry. You know. You’re
a strong man, more than able.” Wickliff turned away, and
Miranda wondered if he was ill. Then she saw that he wept,
silently, wiping the tears away so she would not see. She
put her arms around him from behind and leaned her cheek
against his broad back.
“I was gentle
as a lamb,” he said in a thick voice. “I pinched her nose
and mouth shut and sang ‘Rock-a-bye’ while I laid her down.
And it soothed her, just like a wee babe. She drifted off
with a smile, miss, I swear to you!”
“Shh, shh,” Miranda
said. “You did what you had to. You are forgiven. No need,
no need.”
Soon after Wickliff
left, Miranda heard voices in the officers’ mess. She slid
beneath her cot and peered through the crack. Wickliff and
another man, a shorter, older fellow, with a mass of curly
grey hair and a missing eye uncovered by a patch or scarf.
The void in his skull gaped blackly and seemed to rove over
Miranda and her peephole. Wickliff stood before him, his
voice strident and quick.
“Just hear me
out, Trent,” he was saying. “Hear me out. How old are you?
How much older do you expect to get on an outlaw’s ship?
It’s no life we live, Trent.”
“Watch your words,
Wickliff. Treason—”
“Treason? From
a man of no country! From a convict—an exile!” Wickliff’s
voice grew louder, and Miranda saw Trent’s hand go to his
pocket.
“Do it!” she cried.
Wickliff’s pistol roared, and Trent fell dead, blood spouting
from the wound in his chest.
“Oh, Christ…” Wickliff
moaned. He didn’t seem to know what to do. Blood flowed from
Trent’s chest in a widening pool. Wickliff stepped back from
the pool.
“Wickliff! Listen
to me!” Miranda whispered. He looked wildly about, his eyes
searching the wall. “You must hide him! We aren’t ready,
and if they find the corpse, they will know you for a mutineer!
Hide it! Wickliff!”
“Yes,” he said.
He replaced his pistol in its holster and regarded the body.
Then his head jerked to the door—footsteps in the corridor.
Someone had surely heard the gunshot.
“Hurry!” Miranda
pleaded. Wickliff opened the port window. The salt breeze
flowed in and Miranda breathed deeply of her first fresh
air in days, mingled with the rusty scent of blood. Wickliff
shouldered the burden of flesh and thrust it through the
window; Miranda heard the distant splash. Wickliff watched
for a moment.
“Sharks have him
now,” he said. The footsteps—closer, closer. The door to
the mess creaked open, and Wickliff, covered in Trent’s blood,
whirled to face the intruder. Crimson soaked his shirt, his
coat, his hands, his hair. Blood stained the floorboards.
“You cut yourself,
then?” The voice was unfamiliar. “Or did you do for Trent?”
“Jenkins,” Wickliff
said, “It’s not…it’s not…” Miranda winced.
“I think it is,
old boy. I think you did for Trent. I saw you call him below,
and I thought—now what could he be wanting with old Trent?
He’s not enjoying his conversation, rosy and pleasant as
it may be. Old Wickliff’s known not to care for Old Trent.
So what’s he doing, then? And then I hear a shot.”
“All right, then,” Wickliff
said. “Trent’s feeding the sharks. I’ll have you know I intend
a mutiny. You can stand with me, or I can do for you, too.
Stand with me, and the King’s Pardon can be ours. Miss Davenport—”
“The harlot what
Barclay nabbed?”
Wickliff bristled. “I’ll
not have her called that. You’ll respect the lady.”
“Aye.” Jenkins
moved into view, bowing elaborately as he walked. “I suppose
you’ll be the new captain, so I’ll respect you true enough.” He
was gaunt, his face thin and bony.
The sarcasm was
lost on Wickliff. “And I’ll respect you in turn. But I’ll
only be captain as long as it takes to reach the nearest
British port. Then we surrender ourselves and take the King’s
Pardon.”
Jenkins considered. “The
King’s Pardon? For us?”
“Miss Davenport
says it’s possible. Her fiancé is a captain in the Navy.
You and I were Navy once, too. We bring them Barclay’s head
and it’s beyond doubt.”
“And if you’re
wrong, we’ll swing.”
“If I’m wrong,
we’ll swing sooner or later regardless. You know that’s all
we can hope for, right? A noose, a drum roll, and a short
fall.”
Jenkins nodded. “Right.
I’m in.”
“If you’re in,
and Trent’s gone, the crew will follow. We’ve only to dispatch
Barclay.”
“And how do we
do that?”
“At supper, during
the dog watch. Have your pistols primed and ready. That’s
when Barclay will miss Trent. After us, only the quartermaster
and the cookie’ll be present. Can’t count on any of them.”
“Right you are,
captain. I’ll be ready.”
Jenkins left and
Wickliff leaned heavily against the wall. He wiped his brow,
then stared at his bloody hand. “Oh, Christ,” he said.
“Wickliff! There
remains work to do!”
He snapped to
attention. “Yes! So close now.”
At her direction,
Wickliff threw his bloody clothes through the window (Miranda
averting her eyes), then fetched a change of clothes and
a bag of sawdust. He soaked up the blood, scraped up the
sodden dust, and disposed of that as well, leaving a dark
stain on the floorboards. “Fetch a rug!” she ordered, and
he returned with a moth-eaten scrap of carpet. It hid the
stain admirably. “Now—until tonight!” she whispered. “And
freedom!”
“And freedom,” he
echoed, not sounding convinced.
The minutes crawled
unbearably. Miranda sat, in a careful frozen attitude. She
could do little else. Everything depended on Wickliff now.
She listened to the heave and sigh of the ocean. She trusted
completely in her success. Never once did it occur to her
to pray.
The door clattered
open and shattered Miranda’s trance. Barclay stood in the
doorway, staggering a little. Miranda smelled rum as he approached
her. That hideous fear reared in her mind and she fought
it back. She was golden, she was charmed; things could not
go awry when her plan was so close to fruition. Miranda knew
for a fact that Barclay couldn’t harm her; she would not
allow it. She had no idea how she could prevent it, but it
simply would not happen. Yet—she backed away as he fumbled
across the cabin.
Barclay glared
at her and collapsed sideways on the cot. He pulled at the
bottle. “Pretty wench,” he slurred. “Gad, so pretty.” Miranda
remained quiet. “Had a pretty wench once. Looked like you.
But not so dark. And red hair, not brown. And freckles.”
“What happened?”
“What happened?” Barclay
laughed joylessly. “She lived in a place called Drogheda.
Know you Drogheda?” Miranda shook her head.
“Course not, Gloucester
wench. Daughter of a knight, not knowing what lives and dies—what
mass of blood and bones you eat and drink and sleep upon.”
“Strong talk,
from a murderer!” Miranda said. Barclay didn’t seem to hear
her.
“Of course you
wouldn’t know Drogheda and my pretty wench. How English steel
spilt Irish blood and made an apostate of Joshua Barclay.
No country, no king. And you wouldn’t know, either, the price
of dying—how blood cries for blood and can’t ever be sated.
Drink, drink, and still thirst. What can you do?” Barclay
put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until the bottom
stuck in the air. He wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand and wagged the bottle between thumb and forefinger,
gazing madly at Miranda.
“Whosoever drinketh
of me shall never thirst. But the water that I shall give
him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting
life. Is that so?” Miranda only stared, horror-stricken.
Her silence infuriated Barclay. He leapt to his feet and
hurled the bottle at her; she ducked and it shattered on
the bulkhead. His voice filled the room. “Drink of life and
know everlasting life; I drank of death and know everlasting
ruin! I can swallow the seven seas and not quench this thirst!”
Barclay fell upon
Miranda. “But I can try!” he roared. His huge hands crushed
her throat. She struck his boiled-egg skull with her fists
and scratched at his eyes; death was at hand, death had her
by the throat! Barclay’s grin grew wide in her vision, vast,
two feet, three feet across, filling her mind and obliterating
all else. Only the grin—and death.
“God, Bridget,” he
moaned.
Suddenly she choked
and spat on the floor of the cabin and he was gone, his lunatic
assault broken off as quickly as it began. Miranda limped
to the door and slammed it. She leaned against it, trembling;
tears welled up and threatened to burst forth, but she would
not let them. She collapsed against the door and shook with
tearless sobs.
At length Miranda
recovered. Her head stopped spinning and the pain dulled
to a slow fire in her throat. She drew breath only with great
agony, but still—she drew breath.
Supper could not
come soon enough, and then it came too soon. Miranda went
to her vantage point under the cot and watched as Wickliff
and Jenkins entered. They kept their hands in their pockets
and avoiding looking at each other. Wickliff’s eyes darted
to Miranda’s peephole from time to time. Soon a short, round
man—the quartermaster—joined them, and the cookie brought
the plates and dishes. Neither Wickliff nor Jenkins touched
the food, and the quartermaster, after a moment’s befuddlement,
helped himself.
“We may have to
seek him out,” Wickliff whispered.
“Aye, you may,
or he’ll miss his supper, and we’ll all hear it then,” said
the quartermaster as he scooped potatoes from a steaming
dish.
“You may not.
He may come to you,” said Barclay. Miranda craned her neck,
but could not see the entrance to the mess. Barclay moved
into the room, still quite drunk. He dropped into his big
chair at the head of the table. “I see Trent has still not
shown his face.”
“He must be quite
ill,” Wickliff said. Miranda could see his hands shaking
as he set down his fork with great concentration.
“He’d have to
be dead in his grave to miss supper, if I know him!” said
Barclay. “What think you, Wickliff? Is he dead in his grave?”
“Now!” Jenkins
shouted. Three pistols fired and filled the mess with white
smoke. The quartermaster screamed shrilly and Jenkins shouted, “I’m
killed, Wickliff!” and there was a great crash of tin and
wood as someone capsized the table. Through the thinning
smoke Miranda saw Barclay and Wickliff locked in struggle,
Barclay with a rusted dirk poised at Wickliff’s cheek and
Wickliff straining against the thrusting arm with all his
might; Jenkins lay dying, eyes rolling heavenward. Dark blood
pulsed from a puckered hole in his abdomen and his fingers
worried at the wound. The quartermaster had vanished.
Wickliff deflected
Barclay’s thrust and the knife sank into the wood beside
Wickliff’s ear. Barclay drove his knee into Wickliff’s stomach
and Wickliff doubled over, empty of breath. Barclay rammed
Wickliff’s head into the sideways table and bloodied table
and head alike. He dropped the swooning Wickliff.
The smoke reached
Miranda and tickled her throat. She coughed, just a small
cough, but Barclay heard it and his eyes darted to her peephole. “You,” he
said, and a pistol cracked and Barclay tumbled to the floor,
his head burst by the ball. Wickliff slumped behind him,
blood running from a diagonal gash on his forehead. The pistol
dangled from his fingers and fell with a clatter.
“Wickliff! Mr.
Wickliff, wake up!” Miranda pounded on the wall. “Wake up!
Wake up! You’ve done it! The captain is slain, Wickliff!
Wake up!”
Footsteps pounded
down the stairs and the mess flooded with men and their shouts: “He’s
killed the captain!” “Barclay’s dead!” The quartermaster
returned and helped Wickliff to his feet.
“Boys,” he said,
his voice tremulous, “you’re free men now, free in deed as
well as word. An end to slavery to a madman. I’ve secured
a King’s Pardon for those who want it. All others will be
set ashore with their portion to seek what fortune they may.
What say you, boys?” A thunderous cheer went up from the
sailors. Miranda stared, fascinated, at Barclay’s corpse.
The monster who ripped her from her world—slain. Yet relief
did not come to her. Blood cried for blood, and would not
be sated.
The Scourge raised
a white flag and sailed for Kingston with Barclay’s head
swinging from the bowsprit. Wickliff unlocked Miranda’s door
and escorted her to the deck, where she blinked in the bright
sunlight. She walked the deck, enjoying the fresh air and
unbroken view, and Wickliff was always at her arm, glaring
at the sailors who dared leer at her. She paid them no mind;
Barclay was dead, dead, and she would be free!
The venomous weed
persisted in her mind.
Two days later
they spotted a sail. “Navy,” Wickliff said, and handed her
the spyglass. “Ship of the line.”
“HMS Valor,” Miranda
read. Her heart leapt—Samuel’s ship! “Bear for it, captain,” she
said. “They will escort us to port.”
Wickliff looked
from the white flag to the Valor and back to Miranda. He
chewed his lip. “Forgive me, miss, for my reservations,” he
said, “but they are a warship, and we are—were brigands.”
“Trust me,” Miranda
said. She took his big red hand in her small white one and
squeezed it. “I trusted you to care for me, and you did.
Now let me care for you.” Miranda smiled without difficulty.
Wickliff exhaled. “Very
well, miss. Full sail, boys—hard about!” The barque swept
over the waves. Through the spyglass, Miranda watched as
the blue-jacketed sailors of the Valor swarmed over the rigging;
the starboard shutters opened and cannons rolled forth. “No
worry, lads!” Wickliff shouted to his nervous crew. “Best
behavior, boys!”
The Scourge drew
near the Valor and an officer came on deck with a speaking-trumpet.
His voice drifted across the gap. “Men of the barque: stand
down!” Miranda scanned the ship with the spyglass. Marines
lined the deck, dozens of muskets trained on the pirates. “By
the power of His Royal Majesty, we seize your ship and all
her crew. You are hereby prisoners of the Royal Navy. Resist
and you will be fired upon.” Miranda spied the officer—tall,
bushy moustache, long black hair—Samuel!
“Samuel!” She
waved her handkerchief. “Samuel!” The Navy officer produced
his own spyglass. He lowered it and resumed the speaking-trumpet.
“You will surrender
all prisoners immediately! We will send a boat. Do you agree
to these terms?”
Wickliff cupped
his hands and shouted his reply: “Aye, governor! Just the
King’s good subjects, returned from truancy!” He laughed
in his relief.
A half-dozen sailors
lowered a boat and rowed it across. Three of the sailors
held muskets, which they kept on the pirates while Miranda
descended. Wickliff squeezed her hand. “God grant you deliver
us, love,” he said, and released her.
The boat returned.
The sailors handed her up and Samuel, her betrothed, her
beloved, welcomed her. “My love!” He took her hands. “Tell
me you have not been mistreated! Have they injured you?”
“Oh, Samuel!” she
sobbed, collapsing to his chest. “I cannot tell you the horrors
I have endured at the hands of these wicked, cruel men!”
Samuel’s lip curled
in disgust and rage, and he bellowed his command with all
the breath in his lungs: “Fire!”
Twenty-nine cannons
boomed and sixty-four muskets cracked. For a frozen instant
Miranda saw Wickliff, tiny in the distance, whirl about,
face red with shouting, his men dashing to battle stations.
Then the sea exploded upward in mighty plumes of water, rending
the sails and shredding the rigging, and the Ocean’s Scourge,
shattered by the bombardment, listed to starboard and sank
beneath the waves. Some desperate members of the crew clung
to barrels and burning wreckage, and the marines picked them
off one by one. Miranda watched a redheaded sailor stroke
frantically through the waves; a musket popped on the crow’s
nest, and the figure disappeared in a cloud of blood. Miranda
watched the waves disperse the blood in a wash of red, then
pink, then nothing but the clear Caribbean water.
Samuel was embracing
her and muttering words of comfort, Miranda realized. “And
Nona?” he asked. “Does she—rest in peace?”
“Yes,” Miranda
said. “I believe she does.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,
my love.” Samuel held her tight.
They were married
two weeks later. Miranda slept late on the day of the ceremony.
She slept extremely well. For a bridesmaid she had the governor’s
charming daughter. The two had become fast friends on her
arrival, and under the daughter’s care, Miranda recovered
quite quickly from her ordeal. In fact, by the time of the
wedding (which all agreed was perfectly beautiful), the daughter
commented to her father that Miranda bore no ill effects
at all. “She is the very portrait of charm and gaiety! Flowers
fairly spring in her footsteps!” the daughter said, and the
governor nodded assent.
