Christine Dorsey - [Sea 01]

Christine Dorsey

“A very special book... If this auspicious first book is any indication, the Charleston trilogy is destined to be a winner!”

—
Romantic Times Magazine

With love to my firstborn, Ben, my only blond child—this golden haired hero is for you.

 And as always for Chip... my safe harbor.

First published by ZEBRA BOOKS

Copyright 1992 by Christine Dorsey

Digitally published by Christine Dorsey, 2012

Cover Design by
Hot Damn Designs

EBook Design by
A Thirsty Mind

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

September, 1686

Port Royal, Carolina

“ ‘Tis a shame he sleeps so soundly. Perhaps a good prod would get him moving.” Jack Blackstone leaned out, balancing his body along the curved limb of the live oak that spread gracefully over the salt marsh. He and Nafkebee had shinnied up the trunk to get a better look at the alligator nearly hidden by the cordgrass below.

A red-tailed hawk soared overhead, and Nafkebee followed its flight with his dark eyes. He was a Cheraw and, at fifteen summers, older and more cautious than his friend. “Be careful he does not use your arm to break his fast, Jack,” he warned in his native tongue.

Swiping back hair burnished gold by the sun, Jack boasted with the cockiness of youth, “Yon gator would have a fight on his hands before I’d let him feast on my arm.” He squirmed around till he could reach the leather pouch slung over his back. He withdrew a handful of stones from inside and threw them within inches of the alligator’s head. Not even a flicker of movement showed in the animal’s eyes, which were all that was visible above the murky water.

Shrugging, Jack sidled across the limb. “I best get back. Father thinks I’m chopping wood.” He had been, until he’d heard Nafkebee’s call, so near that of a wild turkey that all who heard it in the Scottish settlement of Stuart’s Town, save Jack, thought it was. But Jack knew the prearranged signal and with one last downward swipe of the axe, had headed toward the pine woods.

“Elspeth caught me at the edge of the clearing,” Jack said as he leaped onto the spongy ground. “She wanted to come see you, but I assured her ‘twas too dangerous.” The boys shared a grin. Jack’s sister was only five, not much more than a babe, but she could be a pest. The one time Jack had brought her with him on his rendezvous with Nafkebee, she had nearly driven the reticent Indian crazy with her chatter.

After leaving Nafkebee and arranging to meet him again in three days, Jack made his way back to the settlement along an Indian footpath.

Since 1683, Jack had lived in Stuart’s Town. In that year his father, a Scottish nobleman, and Whig, fearing persecution at the hands of James II decided to leave his homeland. Along with nine other families they came to the southern border of Carolina. They were each granted twelve thousand acres in Port Royal and the chance to live free from an arbitrary government.

Life in the colony was hard. Sickness weakened the body, and lack of promised protection from Charles Town disheartened the spirit. There was a constant threat from the Spanish to the south and pirates from the sea, but Jack’s father assured him the land was worth it.

Jack had discussed his father’s philosophy with Nafkebee, who simply shook his head and stated that the land did not belong to man.

Thoughts of his friend made the corners of Jack’s mouth curve up. But in the next instant his smile froze. Shots rang out through the forest, flushing a covey of doves into the blue September sky.

Jack took off at a lope, then as the shooting intensified, ran faster. Branches tore at his clothes as he left the path seeking a quicker way to Stuart Town. His lungs burned, and he gulped air that tasted strongly of fear.

He heard screams now, and as Jack broke into the clearing his own cry of denial escaped his lips. In the harbor were three ships, Spanish by design. Smoke hung over the village, acrid and stinging as Jack ran to his cabin.

His mother lay in the doorway, her once white apron stained crimson. His own blood pounded in his ears as he dropped to his knees. A sob caught in his throat but was forced down by a burning rage. Jack sprang to his feet and raced toward the dock, toward the Spanish soldiers.

Bodies lay everywhere. As his gaze skimmed across the scene of horror, he spotted his father. Jack stopped only long enough to grab the musket from his limp, lifeless fingers.

He burst onto the Spanish soldiers with a fury that shocked them. His father had died before reloading the gun, so Jack used it as a club. He swung repeatedly, feeling the satisfying crunch of flesh and bones.

Words were yelled at him in the heathen Spanish, but he didn’t stop. He fought like a man possessed, not like the lad he was.

Someone grabbed him from behind, and Jack swirled about. And saw his young sister. She was crying hysterically, struggling with her meager strength in the arms of a burly Spaniard. Jack lunged toward them.

But this time his attack was cut short. Pain exploded through his head. He hit the sandy ground with a thud. A booted foot rolled him over, and just before Jack’s world went black he looked into the face he would remember through hell and eternity.

“I am a free prince and have as much authority to make war on the whole world as he who has a hundred sail of ships...”

— Captain Charles Bellamy, pirate

 May, 1699

“Look at them flyin’ the Cross a St. George, Cap’n. It’s just like the bloody Spaniards, pretendin’ to be somethin’ they ain’t.”

Lowering his spy glass, Captain Jack Blackstone dragged his attention from the brigantine dancing on the white-capped south Atlantic to his quartermaster. Phineas Sharp, his expression indignant, stood beside Jack on the
Sea Hawk’s
quarterdeck. Jack gestured toward the red and white flag flying from the yardarm of the vessel they pursued. Pursued across an ever narrowing span of sea. “We’re hardly in a position to fault that ploy,” he chuckled.

Both he and Phin knew England’s red ensign snapped smartly above the deck of their own sloop.

And the British Admiralty would be the first to confirm the
Sea Hawk
was not an English vessel.

“That’s different, Cap’n, an’ ye knows it. Rules ain’t for the likes a us.” Phin screwed up his walnut brown face at the word “rules” as if the very act of saying it was bitter on his tongue.

“ ‘Tis true enough.” Jack leaned bronzed forearms on the polished rail. Rules were something he’d given up years ago. No, not given up. Been forced to give up. He took a deep breath of salty air. “But as it happens yonder ship is flying its own colors.”

“She’s English?” Phin’s tone was incredulous. “Aye.” Jack pushed away from the rail.

“But”—Phin scurried after his captain down the ladder to the main deck. Here the noise and bustle of the crew as they positioned cannon through gunwales and piled extra shot drowned out the whip of the wind in the square-rigged sails.

Phineas caught up with Jack near the thick pine mast. “But if she’s English, then why—”

“No rules, Phin. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Aye, but, Cap’n, ‘tis different. Not that I care, mind ye. I mean, I’ve attacked me share a British ships, I have. But ye —”

“Drew the line at pirating the British,” Jack finished for him, then raked lean, tanned fingers through sun gold hair. Phineas had a right to be surprised. From the moment Jack became captain of the
Sea Hawk
he had insisted they steer clear of the British. Spanish galleons they hunted with relish. French privateers fell prey to their pirate guns. But never the British. Until today.

Jack looked down at his quartermaster. The man, for all his fierce looks and gravel-rough voice, had a soft streak a league deep, especially where Jack was concerned. He’d first shown it eleven years ago when Jack, frightened and alone, had scurried up the side of the
Sea Hawk
and stumbled unceremoniously to the deck. He still showed it in the concern of his deep-set black eyes.

“ ‘Tis rumored there’s a Spaniard on yon ship, bound for St. Augustine.”

“Ye think it might be de Segovia?”

Jack’s fingers tightened into a fist. “ ‘Tis possible. According to Nafkebee, he’s expected to return from Spain to take charge of the garrison at the Castillo de San Marcos.” He spoke calmly, belying the turmoil inside him. Could revenge possibly be at hand? After all these years?

“We’re running alongside, sir.”