My Seaswept Heart (9 page)

And she certainly wanted to keep her identity
hidden. Just her luck she chose the passageway in front of Captain
MacQuaid’s cabin to get sick in.

But one good thing. He hadn’t recognized her.
No, he saw what he wished to see. A scrawny lad who couldn’t keep
his victuals down. Anne smiled despite her discomfort. But her
expression sobered as another wave of sickness made her break out
in a cold sweat. Leaning against the splintery bulwark, too weak to
go looking for her hammock, Anne wondered how wise she’d been to
come aboard. It had seemed the perfect plan while on Libertia. She
didn’t trust the pirate, so she’d keep a wary eye on him. And there
was also the problem of the jewels she’d promised him. Jewels she
didn’t have. But how was she going to watch him when she couldn’t
take her eyes off the pitching deck?

~ ~ ~

A pounding woke Jamie and he leaped from the
bunk before he even opened his eyes. When he did he could see the
late-afternoon sun streaming through the salt-encrusted panes of
the transom windows.

“Cap’n.” A pirate named Roger poked his fat
body through the door. He was out of breath and Jamie had to prod
him with a “What in the hell is it?” before he continued. “Ship off
the starboard bow.”

“Is it d’Porteau?” Jamie strapped on his
cutlass and jammed a pistol into the leather sash across his
chest.

“Deacon don’t know for sure. But he says she
looks French by her cut.”

Before Roger had finished, Jamie was past him
into the passageway heading for the hatch. The main deck was alive
with activity. Powder monkeys, the boys who carried the powder and
shot to the cannons were scurrying around. Keena was doling out
weapons, muskets, and cutlasses to the men.

Deacon stood on the quarterdeck and he handed
Jamie the spyglass after he bounded up the ladder.

“Over there, Cap’n.”

Jamie pointed the glass in the direction
Deacon indicated, though by now he could see the ship. “’Tisn’t the
French Whore
.” Jamie shrugged his shoulders. “So unless
d’Porteau is sailing a different boat these days, it looks as if we
have ourselves an innocent French merchantman.” When Jamie looked
around he was grinning. “Since the French and English are warring
as usual, ’twould seem our duty as fine upstanding Englishmen to
relieve the good captain of his cargo?”

“Even though ye be a Scot by birth?”

Jamie laughed. “Especially then.”

~ ~ ~

The chaos was frightening.

Men ran about, loading guns and flashing
swords. So much of it reminded Anne of the day d’Porteau raided
Libertia. It was a day she feared would burn in her memory
forever.

Anne pressed her back against the foremast
and shut her eyes wishing the sights and sounds would go away. Her
lids flew open when something was shoved hard at her stomach.
Reflex had her grabbing the wooden canister.

“Look lively, boy! This ain’t no time to be
dreamin’ of your momma’s teat,” a gruff voice yelled.

Using her knee to keep the heavy barrel from
slipping, Anne looked around the deck, trying to decide what to do
with it.

“Over here.” Anne glanced up to see a boy of
perhaps ten motioning to her with spindly arms. “Is ye deaf?” he
yelled when she continued as if rooted to the spot.

“No, my hearing is perfectly fine,” she said
as she made her way across the sand-strewn deck to where the boy
stood.

“That there is langrage. Scrap metal,” he
explained when Anne said nothing. “It chews up rope and canvas
good.”

“I see.”

He looked at her askance, his coppery brows
beetled. “Ye talk strange.”

“Do I? I mean...” Anne glanced nervously
about her. “I ain’t never been in a battle before.”

The boy spit on his hands, then rubbed them
together. “Didn’t need to tell me that. Thought you was gonna shit
your pants over there.”

“I was not.” Throw up perhaps, but certainly
not that.

“No need to get yourself in a twit. Happens
to everyone their first time.” He leaned a bony elbow on the cannon
by his side. “Ye can put that down here. Probably won’t be needing
it anyways. Don’t expect yonder boat will put up much of a
wrangle.”

Anne glanced out over the ever-narrowing
expanse of cobalt-blue water that separated the two ships. “How can
you be sure?”

“Ain’t. But I’ve seen enough ’a this to know
most of them captains don’t care a fig about their cargo. Losin’
one here or there makes no difference to them as long as they’ve
plenty of salt pork to fill their bellies and a soft pillow for
their heads.”

“So?” Anne pressed into the space beside the
cannon and turned to look out to sea as the captain strode by.

“So,” the boy repeated looking at her as if
she knew nothing. “We give them a warnin’ and they give up.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“’Tis.” the boy smiled showing a gap where
his front teeth should be and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Joe.
What’s yours?”

“Anne... dy. Andy.” To Anne’s relief Joe
didn’t seem to notice her near slip. She grabbed his hand and shook
it, then almost jumped overboard as a loud boom shook the
sloop.

“That would be the warnin’,” Joe said.

By now a burly pirate with no shirt and
blousy-striped breeches stood by the cannon. He held a long pole
that Joe explained was a rammer. And he waited as the captain
called over to the brig, now within hailing distance. Anne looked
up to where he stood on the quarterdeck. He yelled again and this
time he was answered in a heavy French accent.

“You have the pleasure of surrendering your
cargo to Captain Jamie MacQuaid and his crew, or of visiting the
bottom of the sea. Which shall it be?”

There was a pause and then a wild cheer on
board the
Lost Cause
as the French fleur-de-lis fluttered
slowly down the yardarm.

“Now there’s work to be done,” Joe said as he
gave Anne’s arm a friendly punch. “But don’t fret, there’ll be an
extra ration of grog this night.”

Which was hardly wonderful news as far as
Anne was concerned, she thought later. She sat in a
V
of
deck between a barrel and an untidy tangle of rope. Joe wedged
himself in beside her and after giving her a friendly grin downed a
healthy gulp of liquid from a dented tin cup.

“Told ye ’twouidn’t be so bad.”

Anne sipped the grog, trying not to make a
face and nodded. What Joe called not too bad had involved shimmying
across the ropes that tangled the
Lost Cause
to the French
vessel it captured and tossing kegs of salt pork over her
shoulders. She ached in places that had never whispered a complaint
before, even when she took her turn in the sugar works. Stretching
out her legs she had such a strong longing for a soft bed with
clean sheets that she considered... and just as quickly rejected,
the idea of marching toward the cluster of pirates reveling on the
quarterdeck.

The captain was there, along with the
blackamoor and the one he called Deacon. Several others lounged
about, but she didn’t know their names as yet. What would they
think... what would the captain think... if she joined their midst
and tore off the knit cap that concealed her hair and itched her
neck? Would they offer her a place to sleep other that any spot on
the crowded deck she could find?

Probably not unless she was sprawled beneath
Jamie MacQuaid in the captain’s cabin. And she had no intention of
doing that.

“Weren’t much of a fight today,” Joe said,
bringing Anne’s attention back to the boy. He took another drink
and belched. Then with a satisfied smile on his thin, freckled face
leaned back against the rope. “But I guess that ain’t too bad.”

“I imagine not.”

His chuckle was swift in coming. “Ye sure
does talk funny.”

Sinking her neck down lower in the ragged
wool jacket Anne went silent. Why couldn’t she remember to keep her
voice low? But Joe’s next words made her realize it wasn’t her
voice she needed to watch.

“Ye had schoolin’?”

“Some,” Anne answered truthfully. “But it
weren’t for me.”

“Yea, I know.” Joe lifted his head toward the
scatter of stars overhead. “This be the life for me, too. No one ta
be tellin’ ye to do this or that. Plenty ta eat.” His tone changed.
“And no booted toe kickin’ at ye.”

“Booted toe?” Anne sat up straighter, but in
the light of the dripping candles stuck into the timbers, she could
see the guarded expression on Joe’s face.

He laughed again, that short gruff sound
she’d learned to recognize after spending most of the day in his
company. “Me old man was quick with a kick.”

“Your father kicked you?”

“Not more’n I could handle,” Joe said with a
bravado thin enough to shatter. He stuck his chin out. “Don’t need
to worry ’bout him none. Left ’em soon as I got me the chance.”

“I’m glad.” Anne took another drink from her
cracked cup. The liquid, strong as it was, did little to wash away
the foul taste of Joe’s story. She knew there were evil people, of
course. Willet d’Porteau and his crew. Jamie MacQuaid might fit
into that mold, too, but a father? That was too frightening to
imagine. Her own had been as kind and gentle as his brother,
Richard. Like her guardian, Henry was a scholar, a man who read and
explained and lived for his books. He had never spoken a harsh word
to her let alone physically harmed her.

“Won’t find much ’a that on the
Lost
Cause
, though.”

“Much of what, beatings?” Anne’s thoughts had
been yanked to the painful day she learned her parents had perished
at sea, so it took her a moment to realize what the boy meant.

“Aye.” Joe drained his cup. “Cap’n Jamie
don’t hold with none.”

“’Tis good to hear.”

Joe nodded, then twisted his head toward the
sailors who sprawled near the main mast. They sang a song Anne
didn’t recognize and could barely understand. But it was loud and
judging from the accompaniment of snickers and guffaws, bawdy.
Catching only the occasional word was enough to pinken Anne’s
cheeks despite what she’d gotten used to from Israel.

When Joe looked back at Anne he scrunched up
and leaned his bony elbows on equally bony knees. “Being more
experienced and all I think I should warn ye.”

“About what?”

“Some a’ them ain’t as kindhearted as the
cap’n.”

Kindhearted? She hardly thought that a fair
description of Jamie MacQuaid, but since Joe seemed so sincere
about his advice she kept her council and shifted to hear him
better.

His voice dropped to a whisper even though
there was no one within hearing distance. “Stay clear ’a
Stymie.”

“Stymie?” She’d heard that name before. “What
does he do?”

Joe pulled back as if his father had caught
up with him and delivered one of his kicks. “Just stay clear.” He
looked at her, his eyes narrowed and Anne wondered if he could see
beyond her disguise. And if he did what she would do. But he only
shrugged before settling back, his head pillowed by the rope.

“He ain’t likely to fancy ye none as dirty as
ye be.”

Dirty? Anne’s gaze skimmed over the group,
none of whom appeared much cleaner than she and felt a pang of
resentment. Which was quickly squelched. Heaven knew she didn’t
want any of the pirates to fancy her anyway. And staying away from
all of them was her plan.

A plan that over the next few days proved
difficult.

The
Lost Cause
was a single-masted
sloop, sharp of hull and swift of sail... and crowded. There was
hardly a square rod of unused space, and the men who sailed her
seemed forever falling over one another. Anne would turn around and
there would be one of the pirates lounging about on the deck, feet
propped on a stack of canvas. And belowdecks was worse. There was
little room, no privacy and keeping her gender a secret was a
problem.

Joe was always about. For all his rough ways
he was a pleasant companion, but Anne ached to yank off her cap and
give her hair a good washing. But washing didn’t seem to be of
prime concern to anyone on board.

Nor was straightening or keeping the ship’s
decks in order. Anne was filling the fire buckets, one of the few
tasks she’d been given, when she turned to stare into the
pockmarked face of the man Joe warned her about. He startled her so
that she jerked, spilling briny water down the side of her breeches
and splattering his.

With a movement so quick she couldn’t avoid
him the pirate grabbed her arm. “Watch what you’re about, boy, else
you’ll be feelin’ the rough of me palm across your bottom.”

The voice. Anne recognized it instantly as
belonging to the man who’d grabbed her in the tavern on New
Providence. It had been so dark and she was single-mindedly
searching for Captain MacQuaid that she didn’t get a good look at
him. But she knew him now from the distinctive timbre and sneer of
his words.

And she wondered if he would have the same
epiphany of recognition. Sweat streamed down her shoulders pooling
in the small of her back before soaking into her woolen pants. The
jacket she wore to disguise her form only made her hotter as it
seemed to attract the Caribbean sun and trap the heat against her
skin.

He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes and
baring his yellow-stained teeth and Anne forced her voice as low as
she could.

“Sorry, sir,” she managed, not faking the
quiver of fear in her voice.

“Sorry, is ye?” His fingers tightened. “Well
now mayhap you’d like ta feel me hand on yer backside.”

“Nay.” Wriggling was useless but Anne
couldn’t help trying. His smell, his touch, everything about him
was making her nauseous.

“Spunk,” he said, his free hand latching onto
her other arm. “I like that in me boys.” With one violent shake he
stilled Anne’s struggles. Her neck jerked back and she stared up at
him, her eyes wide. “What’s yer name, boy? I ain’t seen ye
before.”