Pirate Wolf Trilogy (3 page)

The order was
relayed and almost immediately there were men clambering nimbly up
the shrouds and steadying themselves on the yards while others
released the tension in the rigging lines and allowed the sails to
be reefed and lashed to the spars. It was slower work than normal,
for the sails had been well soaked with seawater to swell the
canvas and take advantage of any breath of air. They had been
becalmed three days now, and aside from the occasional cat’s paw
that scudded over the surface of the water, they had drifted no
more than a league or two in that time.

That was
why, when the dawn began to melt away the morning mist, the sight
of another ship standing so close at hand had tightened more than a
few sphincter muscles. Nearly every one of the
Egret’s
crewmen lined the rails; none had moved
away over the past hour, few had raised their voices above a
whisper. They were still in dangerous waters and without wind to
move them, they would be easy pickings for enemy
gunners.

The low,
thick ceiling of cloud that had hung over them for the same three
days had made it near impossible to take any kind of a reading from
the sun during the day or from the stars at night. The helmsman’s
best guess to their position had them stalled square in the middle
of Spain’s busiest shipping lanes. They were homeward bound, still
four weeks out of Plymouth; low on victuals and fresh water, lower
still on any inclinations they might have to engage a strange
vessel in enemy water. They had heard rumors, before their
departure from the Caribbean, that King Philip’s plate fleet had
cleared Hispaniola two weeks before them. The huge galleons,
burdened by the gold and silver mined in Panama and Mexico, would
be slower moving than the
Egret
,
and it was not inconceivable they could have caught up. Moreover,
these plate fleets traveled under heavy escort from India guards
whose decks bristled with guns of all sizes and calibers, whose
captains had no compunctions about attacking stray ships and
collecting English crews to enslave in their galleys.

McCutcheon’s
concerns were genuine and Spence took his wiry mate’s counsel to
heart. Spit had been on the sea more years than most ships in the
English fleet. What few spikes of hair he had sticking out on his
scalp and chin were gray, and if he stood on tiptoes the top of his
head might reach Spence’s armpit. They had been together nigh on
fifteen years, one of the oddest couples on the Main, and known by
nearly every merchant and investor in Plymouth for the quality of
sugarcane rum they ran up from the Indies.

The
Egret
was armed,
as any reasonably minded merchant trader should be, and had seen
her fair share of fighting, mostly against Spanish and Portuguese
privateers who objected to Spence’s interference in their trade
monopolies. But as any Englishman knew, a man was only as good as
the ship he sailed. Both the Spanish and the Portugee had clung to
the centuries-old design of square-rigged masts, which meant they
could sail only where the wind took them. English vessels were
fore-and-aft rigged on all but the main square sail, adding
maneuverability in the yards that allowed them to sail circles
around more cumbersome galleons, which could only watch and grow
dizzy.

The wounded
galleon before them was definitely English in design and flew the
Cross of St. George on what was left of its topmast, though it was
as tattered and charred as her other pennants.

“Below Aulde
George, there,” Spence said, narrowing his amber eyes to bring the
topmast into better focus. “Do ye recognize the pennon?”

“Crimson on
black. A stag, or a goat, I make it.” McCutcheon shook his head.
“The crest is not familiar to me.”

“
Aye,
well, it
feels
like it
should be familiar. At any rate, she’s no simple merchant wandered
too far from home. She’s showin’ ten bloody demi-cannon an’
fourteen culverins in her main battery as well as falconets and
perriers fore an’ aft.” Spence pointed at the monstrous
thirty-two-pounders snug in her waist and added out the side of his
mouth, “I’ll wager whoever her master is, he’s not one to haggle
over the price o’ trade goods.”

“Mayhap she’ll
have shot to spare an’ a tun or two o’ powder if her magazine is
not underwater.” McCutcheon’s graveled voice did not betray too
much optimism. “Or if she did not use it all gettin’ herself in
such a condition.”

Spence
straightened and scratched thoughtfully at the violent red beard
that foamed over his chin. It was a cool morning, yet there was a
faint sheen of moisture across his brow, glinting off the bald dome
of his head. He kept staring at the limp pennant that hung so
forlornly in the still air. Something about it was nagging at the
back of his mind. Something was making his skin itch and his
ballocks tighten—a sure sign of trouble ahead.

“Well, we’ve no
choice but to take a look. An’ no harm in passin’ by the armory on
the way.”

“
Aye,”
Spit grumbled, and passed the order over his shoulder. “Cutlasses
an’ pistols, ten shots apiece. Lewis, Gabinet, Brockman, Hubbard,
Mawhinney—” He paused in naming the best musketmen on board and his
wizened gaze settled on one particularly expectant face.

The amber
eyes of the captain, which more often than not twinkled with
mischief and good humor, had not retained their joviality in his
offspring. Solemn and serious most times, Beau Spence’s eyes were
large and fiercely proud and more often than not brought to mind a
tigress stalking its prey. Thankfully, neither the captain’s
ponderous girth nor the shocking red fuzz that dominated his
walrus-like features had been passed to his daughter. Beau’s hair
shone with only hints of red in the brightest of sunlight, and then
only on the rare occasions she left it unplaited. Most times she
kept the rich auburn braid bound as tightly as her doublet, which,
though considerably smaller in size than any other garment on
board, did a fair job in flattening and smoothing any distractions
that might lure a lecherous eye from his work. Moreover, being the
only woman on board a ship full of lusty-minded men, she had shown
no hesitation or lack of skill in using the razor-sharp dagger she
wore strapped about her waist, or—as one poor gelded bastard had
discovered—the wickedly thin stiletto she kept sheathed in the cuff
of her boot.

There had
been some who had balked at the notion of a woman joining the crew
of the
Egret
—what
soundly superstitious sailor would not? But she knew every plank,
spar, and cleat on board. She worked as hard as any of them and oft
times harder than most, if only to prove she was deserving of their
respect. Seven voyages ranging from six months’ to a year’s
duration had more than proven it. It was only the captain who tried
to test her patience now and then. Four weeks from home and he was
starting to take precautions as if he were suddenly remembering he
was her father.

But Spit
McCutcheon had no qualms about including her in any venture. She
was a dead shot with a pistol and could hold her own with a cutlass
against men twice her size. And even if the tiger eyes had not been
focused intently on him now, almost daring him to pass her by, he
probably would have called her name.

“Aye, Beau.
Fetch yourself a cutlass an’ join the party. Have Roald break out
some pipes o’ water as well; no tellin’ what we might find over
yonder.”

Beau followed
the others down to the main deck and waited for the weaponry to be
distributed. She buckled a cutlass around her waist and slipped a
second belt, strung with powder cartridges and a pouch of lead
shot, over her shoulder. A brace of pistols completed her arsenal,
tucked securely into the sword belt and adjusted like old
friends.

Jonas
Spence paid no more heed to his daughter than to anyone else as he
raked the small group and pronounced them ready. He led the way to
the ship’s rail and climbed down the gangway ladder to where four
oarsmen were waiting in the jolly boat. He had not troubled to
cover his bald head with a hat, but he drew on a pair of leather
gloves as the boat pushed away from the hull of the
Egret

The
captain’s gloves were specially made, the left one containing two
stuffed fingers to replace the ones he had lost to a misfired
musket several years ago. It was a small affectation, wanting to
appear whole in front of strangers, and extended to include the
wooden calf and foot he had learned to use with only a minor limp
to betray the fact his leg was shot away below the knee. Despite
the impediments, there was not a tar on board who would not have
followed him into hell if he asked it of them. The
Egret
carried a crew of ninety and it
was to Spence’s credit as a fair and able master, that the same
ninety men, give or take a spate, had been with him since his ship
had been launched from the dockyards ten years ago.

As the jolly
boat came within hailing distance of the unknown ship, the crew’s
attention was fixed steadfastly on the looming hull. There were
still no signs of movement on board, no glimpse of a curious head,
no ominous creak of a falconet swiveling on its iron cradle to take
aim on the advancing boatmen. There was only the soft rush of water
sliding under the keel of the jolly boat, and the faint clinking of
two small iron rings that dangled from a broken spar high above the
deck.

“Ahoy there!
Anyone aboard?”

Spence’s
booming voice sounded unnaturally loud as it rolled across the gap
and echoed off the hull of the wreck.

Eight hands
rested over the curved stocks of eight cocked pistols while all
eyes continued to stare intently up at the ship. This close, the
damage to her superstructure gave clear evidence she had been
involved in fierce fighting. Aside from the scars and pocks that
marbled her sheathing, there was fully ten feet of clean board
below the waterline indicating a fatal leak somewhere in her keel.
Another six feet would bring the sea on level with her open
gunports, and inboard flooding would finish the job.

Spence
signaled
the oarsmen to bring them up to the gangway ladder. He was
first up the steps, with the grizzled, bone-thin McCutcheon a beat
behind. Beau was next to last and made the climb with no difficulty
in spite of the perilous tilt of the hull.

The sight
awaiting them at the top caused them all to stop in a group inside
the gangway hatch. The deck was a wasteland of debris. Planking was
torn and blackened from fire, ropes and rigging lines snaked
haphazardly across the ruin; the forecastle structure was gone
completely, leaving only a gaping black hole in the deck. Barrels
and buckets were upturned or on their sides, smashed timbers lay
strewn over hatchways, and torn sheets of canvas sail hung limply
from the spars overhead. Three crippled cannon rested where they
had been blown from their trunions. From under the barrel of one of
these smashed cannon a hand and arm protruded, the fingers
blackened and frozen in a claw.

A ferocious
battle had indeed been waged, not too recently to judge by the lack
of staining from blood and ash. But recently enough to retain the
stench of charred wood and decaying bodies.

“Ahoy!” Spence
shouted again. “Be there anyone on board alive enough to hear the
sound o’ my voice? If so, sally forth an’ show yerselves without
fear o’ harm, for we fly the Cross o’ St. George an’ serve Her Most
Royal Majesty, Elizabeth of England.”

Something—a
boot scraping on wood or a piece of debris carelessly
unsettled—startled every pair of eyes in the direction of the
bulkhead below the mangled remains of the forecastle. A man emerged
from the shadows of the hatchway, too tall to do so without ducking
his head. His shirt was torn and filthy, the lacing long gone to
some other use so that the edges of cloth hung open to his waist.
Both sleeves were gone, baring arms that were carved from slabs of
rock-hard muscle, bulging with more than enough power to steady two
fully primed and cocked arquebuses on the group at the rail.

He stood with
his long legs braced wide apart as if balancing himself against
heavily rolling seas. His eyes were piercing even at that distance,
so pale a blue as to be almost silver. His hair fell in thick black
waves to frame a squared jaw and a wide pillar of a neck, both
blunted under a heavy growth of coarse gunmetal stubble. From the
deep V of his opened shirt, a similarly dark forest of hair gleamed
smooth and silky beneath the linen.

Yet, as
formidable as he succeeded in appearing, his skin had an unhealthy
waxen cast beneath the bronze tan. His lips were cracked from lack
of water, the whites of his eyes were shot with bright red veins.
Despite the bulk of muscle that shaped him, his cheeks betrayed a
hint of gauntness suggesting he had gone even longer without food
than water.

“Who are you?”
he rasped. “What ship?”

Spence
lifted a hand to signal his men to caution as he took a wary step
forward. “My name is Jonas Spence. My ship is the
Egret
We hail from Plymouth, our home
port, an’ have been in the Caribbee these past eight months seeking
honest trade.”

“An honest
English merchantman? I count five guns in your starboard
battery.”

“Aye, an’ I
count two dozen in yer main, another half score in yer bow an’
stern for chasers. Nor have I heard a name for you or yer ship,
though I see by yer flags we both claim loyalty to England’s
queen.”

The silver eyes
flared with an unaccountable fury for a moment before he answered.
“My faith in a man’s loyalty is not as secure as it might have been
a month ago, Captain Spence. You will forgive me if I feel a need
to err in favor of caution.”