My Seaswept Heart (19 page)

Her eyes scanned the deck as she was shoved
along toward the forecastle. Shattered sparring rattled in the
wind, and part of the mizzenmast lay twisted on the deck. She heard
a scream and turned in time to see one of the crew, Farley, tossed
overboard by two laughing pirates she didn’t recognize. Her reward
for turning toward the scene was a sharp poke between the shoulder
blades.

“Get on with you, boy.”

“But they...” Anne hesitated. “He’ll die in
the water.”

“Die anyway,” the pirate sniffed. “Ain’t no
sense holdin’ onto any man who can’t pull his weight.”

She wanted to tell him how barbaric he was,
how thoughtless and cruel. But Anne knew it wouldn’t do any
good.

Besides, he just gave her another shove. This
time toward a knot of men Anne recognized from the
Lost
Cause
. They were sitting or slumped over ropes near the
forecastle. Some seemed to be nursing wounds. Others just lulling
the afternoon away. But all their faces showed a concern for their
unknown fate.

Spotting Joe she slumped down on the deck
beside him, waiting for the pirate to amble away before saying
anything. “Where’s Captain MacQuaid?” Anne realized how desperate
her whispered question sounded and tried to calm herself. But her
heart was thumping wildly and she didn’t think she could bear to
hear what she feared was coming. She swallowed when Joe didn’t
answer right away. “Is he...?”

“There.” Joe pointed his skinny arm toward
larboard, where another ship was lashed to the
Lost Cause
.
At first Anne could see nothing but the other ship and the peaceful
blue sky beyond. The sails were doused but unfurled and though it
must have been victorious, d’Porteau’s ship had its share of
damage.

But none of that told her a thing about the
captain. She turned back toward Joe, a question on her face and he
grunted, angling his sharp little chin up. Her eyes shot back to
the other ship, her gaze lifting.

“Oh no.” Anne bit back the cry that swelled
in her throat as she caught sight of the man fettered to the
ratlines spread-eagle. His golden head was slumped forward and
matted with blood, his body limp. Manacles kept his wrists and
ankles attached to the ropes.

It felt like someone punched her in the
stomach. Anne tried to swallow but her mouth was too parched. Even
when she spoke her words sounded dry. “Is he alive?” She couldn’t
take her eyes off the captain to see Joe’s reaction to her
question, but she thought he shrugged.

“He moved, maybe an hour ago. Maybe
longer.”

But he wasn’t moving now. Anne watched until
her head felt like it would explode, willing him to show some sign
of life. But the wind rustling through his hair was the only sign
of movement as the unmerciful sun beat down upon the scene.

“What happened, Joe?” Anne spared a quick
look at the boy whose pinched features were even more drawn. He
seemed reluctant to talk at first, but eventually shook his
head.

“The
French Whore
done fought us, and
we was winnin’.” He sucked air through his teeth. “But when the
cap’n went to board her, only some went with him. The others stayed
on board.”

“You mean they didn’t follow?”

“Aye.” Joe nodded. “They didn’t do nothin’.
Weren’t shootin’. Weren’t fightin’.”

“But didn’t they realize what would
happen?”

“Don’t know as if that weren’t their
intention. Leastways one of ’em struck the colors pretty
quick.”

“Leaving Captain MacQuaid and a few others on
the enemy ship to fight it out alone.” Anne wrapped her arms more
tightly around her legs, then nestled her head to the side, her
eyes on the figure hanging above the deck. She took a shattered
breath. “Do you think they’ll cut him down soon?”

“Don’t know. Maybe they’ll just leave him
there as gull bait. Or for the rest of us to see what can
happen.”

“If we don’t do what?”

“Join ’em, I guess. Seen Stymie and some of
the others prancin’ ’round. Seems like they already done it.”

“Maybe they’re the ones that struck the
colors.” Anne turned toward Joe. “Think about it. Think about what
I heard that night. Their plans to take over the ship.”

Joe shrugged in that way he had, that could
mean he agreed or not. And Anne let it go. What difference did it
make, really? How it happened wouldn’t change anything. It simply
gave her something to think about as the long afternoon wore
on.

She should be trying to decide what to do.
But was acutely aware the decision was not her own to make. At
least all the pirates, friend and foe, still viewed her as a boy.
She wouldn’t receive the fate planned for her on the beach at
Libertia.

But somehow it wasn’t her own fate that
concerned her, nor even her cousin’s, though she’d seen no sign of
him. It was the man hanging high in the shrouds that tormented her
mind... and tore at her heart.

She watched him long after she thought there
was a chance he still lived. She watched him until two pirates, one
tall, with slumped shoulders and a scar sliced across his bare
chest and the other young and almost pretty ambled toward the small
group of prisoners.

“Captain d’Porteau wants the lot of ya on the
French Whore
.” When no one moved, the shorter one whipped
out a pistol and aimed it toward Joe. Scurrying to her feet, Anne
grabbed the boy’s arm and yanked him up. The rest followed, their
bones cracking from their long stint on the hard deck.

Anne noticed now, what she hadn’t before. Oh,
she’d been aware the pirates were roaming around the
Lost
Cause
, but she could see now the deck was clearer. Obviously
some repairs had been made.

After she stumbled across the plank to the
French ship it was clear the crew was busy here as well. But she
gave the decks but a cursory glance before her gaze was drawn
upward.

“What do ye think of yer mighty cap’n now,
eh, boy?” The scarred pirate gave her a shove when she paused to
stare, then laughed when she stumbled. Anne pulled her hat lower
and trudged along. When the group was told to sit near the mainmast
she did, then realized she’d lost sight of Joe in the transfer.

From what she could tell most everyone was
assembled. Rum flowed freely, though none was offered the
prisoners. Everyone else, however, seemed in a festive mood.

She feared a moment of truth was at hand.

When a wild huzzah rang out the hair on the
back of her neck prickled. Twisting her head she saw d’Porteau
strut toward the center of the deck. His burly figure was
outlandishly clothed in the ornate fashion of an earlier era. Black
velvet, liberally encrusted with tarnished gold braid and sea salt,
draped over his protruding stomach, then flared out to skirt past
his knees. His pantaloons were ruffled and drenched with tattered
lace, dingy and soiled. And above it all, sitting atop the curled
black hair was a huge plumed hat.

He struck a pose, preening on his heeled
shoes, then turned with a flourish to plop his ample body upon a
bench made of two upended barrels and a plank. While Anne watched
in amazement a snaggle-toothed boy draped a garish satin and ermine
cape around his plump shoulders.

The pirates from the Frenchman’s ship seemed
to find this wondrous fun. Their cheers and bawdy laughter rippled
through the sun-heated air. Once he’d settled himself sufficiently,
d’Porteau lifted a ringed hand and the tall freebooter who’d
brought Anne to the
French Whore
pounded the end of a
boarding spike against the decking three times.

Quiet descended like a gossamer blanket.

“What say ye, Mister Attorney General?”
D’Porteau’s voice was high-pitched, and nasal.

The man he referred to as attorney general
tried to straighten his rounded shoulders. “If it please yer
Worship.” His droopy-lidded eyes swerved to include the onlookers.
“And ye gents, we got ourselves a real nasty one today.”

“What be his crimes?” The jewels sparkled as
d’Porteau swirled a dirty hand above his head.

“Crimes aplenty, Yer Most Reverent, crimes
aplenty. He be a pirate of the worst kind.” This brought a loud
chorus of guffaws from the assemblage. “A charlatan and a rogue. A
despoiler of innocent maids.” He paused. “And ’tis rumored, a
coward, the blackest of all.”

D’Porteau stroked his chin. “Crimes such as
these against mankind should not go unpunished.” He snapped his
fingers. “Bring the prisoner before me.”

They were having a trial. A travesty of a
trial to be sure, but one nonetheless. As royal governor of
Libertia, Anne’s uncle had presided over a few juries, acting as
judge. The offenses were minor; most of Libertia’s citizens lived
together in peace and harmony. And of course Uncle Richard never
put on such a show as this.

Anne wondered which of the group she huddled
among would be brought to trial first, when a movement to her right
caught her eye. Several agile tars had monkey’d up the rigging and
were untangling Captain MacQuaid from the ropes. She gasped,
surging to her feet as the binding went lax and he slumped forward.
Only a rough hand on her shoulder restrained her from rushing
toward the mast. She was jerked back abruptly, and before she could
turn a voice hissed in her ear. “Don’t make it harder on him.”

Anne folded her legs and swallowed, nodding
her head slightly as the blackamoor’s fingers drifted from her
jacket. It would do no good to run to Jamie’s aid. She would
probably be knocked aside before she reached him.

All she could do was sit, her back hunched
over, her chin resting in the notch between her knees and try to
keep the tears at bay.

At least he was alive.

His step was slow, shuffling, but he’d
shouldered away the coarse hands of the tars once his feet hit the
deck. Anne tried not to notice the raw and bloodied wrists, or the
crusted, coppery blood on his upper arm. She tried. After all,
thanks to d’Porteau she’d seen killing before, and suffering.
People she’d lived with and liked. Innocent people.

So why did Captain MacQuaid’s pain seem to
tear at her insides and touch her soul?

“Ah, there is the prisoner. I thought he
might have found some coward’s way out of facing his accusers.”

“Aye, here he be, Your Eminence. Though a
more scurvy specimen of pirate blood, I’ve yet to see.”

The
French Whore
’s captain found that
amusing, the noise of his laugh rattled deep in his throat. “What
say ye, Captain Coward. Be ye guilty as charged?”

Anne tensed as all eyes turned toward Jamie
Mac Quaid. He straightened his shoulders, though she could tell the
effort it took. But he looked d’Porteau straight in the eye. “I’ll
not answer to the likes of a swine-nosed, blubbering idio—”

His last word was cut off when the pirate
serving as attorney general brought his pike down over the back of
Jamie’s neck. He staggered, catching himself at the last moment
before crashing to the deck. This too, was greeted by loud guffaws
and angry jeers. “Me thinks he be pronouncin’ hisself guilty as
charged, Your Most Wonderful Lordship.”

It took a moment for the staff pounding to
bring the pirates back to order. They were obviously tiring of
pretending to be calm, law-abiding citizens. All except the men
surrounding Anne. They had yet to utter a sound.

Crimson trickled down through the windswept
curls at Jamie’s nape. Anne watched the flow as if mesmerized,
wishing she could do something to help him. Knowing she couldn’t.
So she willed him her strength... what was left of it. Shut her
eyes and tried to send her thoughts to him.

Endure
.
Have courage
.
Survive
.
You are not alone
.

It was all she could offer, and it was so
inadequate. There were tears in Anne’s eyes when she opened them.
When they met his.

She couldn’t explain it any more than she
could change what was happening. But for one fleeting moment the
captain turned his head. And stared straight at her. His sea-green
eyes were bloodshot and strained. But there was no defeat in their
depths. No despair.

He turned away so quickly, Anne could have
imagined the whole of it... except she knew she hadn’t.

D’Porteau was the next to speak. His
expression was still puffed with rage, though he resumed his seat
after jumping up when Jamie uttered his contempt. “Very well,
Attorney General, sir, let us hear what the good men of this ship
feel.”

A loud swell of, “Guilty,” filled the
air.

“Be there a man among ye, who thinks
otherwise?”

Anne felt the pressure of Keena’s hand and
bit her tongue. Silence reigned. The verdict appeared to be
unanimous.

“Guilty, he be then.” D’Porteau held up his
hands for quiet. “But there be more to decide.” His smile was sly.
“What manner of punishment for the miscreant?”

There was a general demand for a hanging.

“From the yardarm,” one yelled.

“Keep his body hangin’ in the sun till his
parts dry up and blow away,” another shouted.

“Carve out his liver,” came a call from a
bloodthirsty tar.

“All very interesting suggestions,” d’Porteau
muttered after his attorney general had regained some semblance of
calm. He stood and pranced toward Jamie, his gait awkward in the
heeled shoes. “But I’ve another idea.” He circled his prisoner,
seemingly deep in thought. Again in front of Jamie he stepped
closer, signaling for someone to pinion Jamie’s arms.

“This man is a captain.” He tilted his head.
“Should he not have a boat?” A few of the Frenchmen’s crew chanted
their agreement. “And the wide open sea beneath him?” The outburst
of agreement grew louder.

“Aye, Cap’n, give ’em the whole damn
ocean!”

Confused, Anne glanced back toward Keena, who
stared straight ahead, his black, tattooed expression unreadable.
But he didn’t seem relieved by this new form of punishment. And
though it sounded preferable to hanging, Anne sensed it wasn’t.