Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (28 page)

He leaned down and kissed each nipple into tautness. “You'll stay right here,” he ordered gruffly, lowering his head and nibbling at her tummy.

Adriana closed her eyes and shivered, ran her fingers through his hair. “Don't be silly. You probably need a good night's sleep. Anyway, I shouldn't continue to take advantage of your gentlemanly nature. I can always find somewhere … oh … else …” Her legs parted at his touch. “… to … Tom? Don't do—oh!—sleep …”

A cannon roared. Adriana jumped and bumped Tom away from her.

“Just practice,” he said, calming her with his hands. He lay back, then turned onto his side to face her. “You're jumpy. You should be used to them by now.”

“I know. Every time I think I am, they take me by surprise all over again.” As she looked down at their naked bodies entwined, her eyes grew misty and her voice husky. Gently, she held him, arranged him so he lay between her legs. “And this?” she whispered huskily. “Is this just practice too?”

“Practice is important,” Tom said. His tongue found her ear, dallied on her throat. “You know what they say?”

Adriana moaned, tilted herself against him, and, when she could stand it no longer, opened herself to him. “No, what?”

The cannon roared twice more in rapid succession—unnoticed as Tom entered her. “Practice makes perfect.”

“All right! Listen up, you whoreson bastards!” Strickland bellowed. “I know you think you're pretty good, so I've arranged a little test to see just
how
good. Where's that tub, Crane?”

“Right here, sir,” Crane called, pulling up a tub half-filled with sand.

“Good. Now, you may be wondering what's in this tub, and I'm gonna tell you.” He lighted a piece of pitch-soaked line from a lantern and dropped it into the tub. As he talked, dark tendrils of smoke began to rise from the tub. “It's easy enough to load and fire a cannon when no thin' else is happening. In a battle, though, there's gonna be smoke and pain, and that's what this'll give you—and plenty of both!”

“Target coming up,” Larkin called from the quarterdeck.

Strickland peered out over the water. A half-mile ahead and as far off their beam a brightly flagged keg buoy they'd thrown overboard bobbed up and down on the waves. “You should come close on the first shot,” Strickland said, his attention returning to the two starboard crews. “How far you miss on the next four will give you a measure of just how good you ain't.”

“Five in all?” someone groaned. “Jee-sus!”

“Be glad you ain't in the Navy,” Strickland said. “Then we'd have enough powder for ten rounds and you'd learn what sweatin' and chokin' really is. Ready? Remember, I'll be timing you.”

The fire had caught hold, and a dense black cloud billowed from the tub. “Ready!” Strickland roared.

The already-loaded cannon were run out.

“Aim!”

Chocks elevated the muzzles, which swung toward their target.

“Fire!”

Two cannon roared as one. Immediately, Strickland and Crane pushed the tub into a position where the thick, oily smoke rolled over the crew. “What in the
hell
?” Tom asked, picking that moment to come on deck.

A chorus of coughs and heartfelt curses came from inside the smoke as the crews labored to swab the barrels and reload.

“Strickland's idea of simulatin' battle conditions,” Maurice explained, joining Tom at the rail. “Told me they'd be ready for anything if they could pass that test.”

“I imagine,” Tom said, laughing. “Where's Larkin?”

“Catchin' three winks.”

“Who knows where we are, then?”

“Me. We came about at two or three this morning, and are on a long reach toward Tortola. Right now I'd say we're somewhere around the middle of Anegada Pass. Another two days at the most, the way Larkin makes it.”

“If the weather holds,” Tom said.

“Which is why Larkin's sleepin',” Maurice explained. “The glass is down and he says he smells a squall. Shouldn't last too long and we got plenty of sea room, so it shouldn't be a big problem. Slow us down a day, maybe.”

“Damn!”

Maurice grinned. “Larkin said to tell you, when you said that, that we're better off gettin' a blow now instead of when we're off San Sebastian. All things bein' equal, we'll have a week or so of good weather after this one has passed.”

“I suppose so …” One cannon roared, followed by the other. The smoke from Strickland's burning tub passed between Tom and the flagged target keg. “Well?” he shouted forward.

“Close enough for a hit,” Strickland called back, peering into the smoke. “Get a move on, lads! Swab 'em out, load 'em up, and run 'em on out!”

There wasn't much point in watching any longer. Whether the men were capable of hitting a keg at a quarter mile had little bearing on anything except, perhaps, their confidence; the real test—if it came—would be at close quarters, and aiming would not count nearly as much as the grit to continue in the face of grave danger. Pensive, Tom chatted a moment with the man at the helm, then headed below for coffee.

All in all, he thought, alone in the galley, the voyage had gone remarkably well. The crew had worked hard with little supervision and had remained in good spirits. The men had taken to Adriana and had restrained themselves to an occasional bawdy comment. A large scale map of the island—the details filled in by Slurry and two other crew members who'd spent time there—had been prepared. It had been decided that Tom, Maurice, Strickland, Benet, Fairleigh, and Topaz would constitute the landing party, and the six men spent hours poring over the map and devising a loosely drawn plan on which they could improvise once ashore. They spent more hours trying to manufacture a good reason, in case they ran into the
Druid
before they reached the island, for being in those waters without a cargo. It had been Fairleigh who'd finally suggested a solution: simply tell what, in a pinch, could be the truth—that Tom was on his way to negotiate with the governor for the return of his sons. That, in turn, prompted the suggestion that negotiation first might not be a bad idea, but Tom vetoed this alternative in favor of their surprise attack, which he felt stood a greater chance of success.

Not all their time was spent at work. Every member of the crew had his palm read by Adriana. Gunnery practice turned into a competition that Topaz's crew won, and for its proficiency was rewarded an extra five dollar gold coin per man. Maurice and Topaz spent at least an hour each day together trading fighting secrets in one of the holds. Though Maurice's hands were cut in a dozen places and Topaz's legs were covered with bruises, each man appeared pleased with his progress. As for Tom himself …

As for me, what?
he brooded. Uppermost in his mind, of course, had been his sons. Were they alive? Had the pirate Sanchez transported them safely to San Sebastian? Were they being well treated? Were they accessible? What defenses had Sir Theodotus prepared against Tom's arrival? Should he have negotiated, gone through diplomatic channels and legal procedures instead of taking the law in his own hands?

No, damn it, no! That could take years. They're my sons. Mine and Jenny's. And we will get them back!

“We.” The thought jarred him. He wasn't thinking of himself and Jenny, but of himself and Adriana. Adriana had replaced Jenny.

That's not true. No one can take Jenny's place. Adriana's just … a woman who …

What? Shared his bed? Listened to his dreams and told him hers? Laughed with him? Ate at his side? Loved—?

No. Not that. I love Jenny. Jenny alone is …

“Captain? Begging your pardon, sir.”

Tom sloshed his coffee as he jerked around. “Yes, Crane?”

“Mr. Larkin's on deck, sir, and would like a word with you.”

The interruption was a godsend. Tom hurried topside to find Maurice and Larkin waiting for him on the quarterdeck. “Morning, Larkin. What is it?”

“Thought you ought to take a look; sir,” the first mate answered, pointing to the northeastern horizon, where a low, dark bank of clouds had appeared.

“Well, shit.”

“The glass is still on its way down. 'Fraid it'll be a little bigger than I expected.”

“How long do we have?”

Larkin checked the sails, the angle of the flag, and glanced again at the clouds. “Another two and a half to three hours is my guess. We'll want to take in everything but a bit of a jib and a spot of the mains'l. We should have a sea anchor ready in case we need one, and we'll need to get everything battened down.” He nodded in the direction of the cannon. “Especially them. Triple ties at least.”

“Very well,” Tom said, disappointed but resigned to the impending delay. “We'll keep full sail on for now, but you may start on everything else.”

No one had to be told anything twice. Most of the crew had sailed together for over a year and every man knew his job. Within minutes, the galley fire was out and safety lines were being rigged on deck. Topaz, Fairleigh, Benet, and Strickland were busy tying down the cannon. Two men were dispatched to double-check below decks; another three were readying a sea anchor so it could be cut free with two well-placed blows of an ax. Tom hurried below to prepare his cabin and to warn Adriana to stay put once the storm hit. No sooner had he stowed and tied down all his gear than Crane appeared again with another summons from Larkin. “What now?” Tom asked.

“A sail, sir. Hull down to the nor'-nor'east. There's a man on the way up the mainmast now to take a better look.”

Tom left Adriana to finish readying his quarters and ran topside. “Well?” he asked, joining Larkin.

Larkin jerked his head toward the tops. “You'll hear it at the same time I—”

“Headin' straight toward us, Cap'n!” Slurry shouted down. “Every sail on, and goin' large with the wind abaft her beam.”

“What is she?” Tom yelled.

Slurry closed the glass, dropped it in its pouch, and scrambled nimbly down the shrouds to the deck. “Fast as she's goin', you'll be able to see for yourself in a few minutes,” he answered ominously, holding the glass to Tom. “But unless me sight's playin' tricks on me, she's a sloop-of-war.”

“Well, Midshipman Holmes,” Bliss snapped at the young man who stood nervously at attention in front of him, “what do you make of it?”

“A cargo schooner, sir,” Holmes replied, “flying the American flag.”

“We've long ago ascertained that, Mr. Holmes.” Bliss's sarcasm had a steel cutting edge. “I was interested in the name of the vessel, if you please.”

Able Seaman Stone spoke up before Holmes was forced to admit that he hadn't been able to hold the glass steady enough to read the name. “The
Cassandra
, didn't you say, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes. Ah …” Holmes's face was beet-red. “The
Cassandra
, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Bliss said, giving no indication he had heard Stone's remark. “And now, please be so kind as to convey the name
Cassandra
to Mr. Meecham and ask him to look it up on the list. I'll be waiting here for his reply.”

Bliss stared across the water at the
Cassandra
, then appraised the line of clouds looming high over the horizon abaft his starboard beam. Aloof and remote, he watched with a practiced eye as the crew scurried about preparing the
Druid
for the storm to come. “Yes, Mr. Williams?” he said as the navigator appeared on the edge of the quarterdeck.

Williams approached, then showed Bliss a chart tacked to a board. “Their course, sir, and ours,” he explained, pointing to two converging lines. “I estimate two hours, sir.”

Again the quick glance at the sky. “Just about the time the weather hits, right?”

“Aye, sir.”

Bliss considered. He could run before the storm, but he would still have to contend with it eventually. He could turn into the storm immediately, and get through the worst part before nightfall. Or he could decide after he knew more about the
Cassandra
. “Very well, Mr. Williams. We'll continue on our present course for the time being.”

“Aye, sir.”

The wind freshened, the minutes wore away. At long last, Meecham, the first officer, hurried up. “Well?” Bliss asked shortly.

“Yes, sir.” Meecham looked at a slip of paper. “The
Cassandra
, sir. An American cargo schooner owned and operated by the Paxton Shipping Lines. The firm is known to conduct business with French firms, and the
Cassandra
herself is listed as having called at numerous French ports, in contravention of the American Embargo Act and the Nonintercourse Act.”

Bliss concealed his delight behind a razor-thin smile. His first potential prize in over three weeks, the
Cassandra
was a plum in its own right. That it was a Paxton ship, and that there was little doubt who was on it and why, was an added piece of luck. A substantial sum in prize money and the undying gratitude—Bliss would see to that—of Sir Theodotus would make this a profitable trip indeed. “Very well, Mr. Meecham,” he said in the flat, emotionless tone most becoming to a captain. “We'll intercept, if you please. Use every yard of canvas you can crowd on. I should like to put a boarding party on her deck before the storm hits.”

“It's the
Druid
, all right,” Tom said. He slammed the telescoping glass closed and handed it back to Slurry. “Damn! That's the last thing we need.”

“Him!” Adriana said, her fingers clutching the rail. “It's he, Thomas. Fate has delivered him to us.”

“Not if I can help it. What we're going to do is hope to hell we can get away.”

“But you can't run!” Adriana insisted. “I tell you, Thomas, you can't fight destiny.”

“But we can an eighteen-gunner, right?” Maurice asked sarcastically.