Raven Saint (5 page)

A slap on his back startled him from his thoughts. “What brings you here to the fo'c'sle, Captain?”

Rafe turned to see his friend, Monsieur Thorn, smiling at him. He had been a good friend, Rafe's only friend this past year. “Clearing my head.”

“Ah, the lady is quite enchanting.”

“My thoughts were not directed toward her.” Rafe grimaced at his friend's discernment.

“Indeed?” A coy grin lifted the lad's thin lips. “Has she recovered from her illness?”

“Oui.” Rafe laid a hand on Spyglass and braced his boots on the deck as the ship plunged over another swell.

“Captain.” Thorn cleared his throat and adjusted his hat. “Has the lady's family laid some unpardonable insult upon you? For I've yet to see you barter in human flesh.”

A spark of shame seared Rafe, but he drowned it under his rising ire. Had his whole crew gone soft? “She is a woman, and her father is an admiral in the British navy. Need I say more?”

“I was in His Majesty's service, Captain, as were several of your crew. And yet you do not despise us.”

Spyglass ceased her purring, and Rafe began caressing her again, resurging her soothing tones. “You quit the navy, as did they, because your conscience could not bear their cruelty. How can I fault you for that? Instead, I applaud you.”

Monsieur Thorn rubbed the scar on his neck and gazed across the choppy sea. “We should be coming alongside Inagua Island soon.”

“Bien.
Only a few more days to Port-de-Paix. I could use some time ashore.” Where he could seek comfort in the arms of one of the town's many willing females. And distance himself from Mademoiselle Grace.

“What of the men? They haven't been paid since we sank the Dutch merchantman and delivered her crew and cargo to Monsieur Franco.” Thorn fingered the feathery whiskers on his chin. “We wouldn't want a mutiny on our hands.”

The sprinkle of glee in Thorn's tone bristled over Rafe's nerves, but he shrugged it off. They had all been on board this ship far too long. “The crew never complains about enjoying les
plaisirs
de Port-de-Paix. Besides, we will be there only a few days.”

Dropping his hands to his sides, Thorn began clenching and unclenching his fists. He shifted his stance then gripped the railing.

Rafe frowned at his friend. Thorn was usually the essence of unruffled composure. “What has you so skittish, mon ami?”

His first mate's gaze darted over the horizon as if searching for something. He gripped the hilt of his sword, then scratched his chin before dropping his hands again. He shook his head and turned to Rafe. “What did you say?”

“You are jumpier than a cat on hot coals.”

“Me? No. Just anxious to get to port.” Thorn rubbed his hands together.

Rafe shook his head. As long as he had known Mr. Thorn, the man had never enjoyed the amenities of port, had often opted to stay on board when the rest of the crew went ashore. Especially in Port-de-Paix. No matter. Perhaps the man's long days at sea had changed his appetites.

Sunlight set the peaks of waves aglow in silvery strips that glittered as far as his eye could see. The smell of oakum, pitch, and salt filled his nostrils, and Rafe took a deep breath. He loved the sea. The ultimate playing field for those who craved danger, excitement, and freedom. They were the outcasts of society—those who did as they pleased and answered to no man.

A speck appeared on the horizon just as “A sail, a sail!” bellowed from the masthead. Setting Spyglass upon the deck, Rafe plucked the telescope from his belt and leveled it upon the intruder, wondering if perhaps the mademoiselle's family had pursued them. Thorn coughed beside him. Two red sails glutted with wind filled his vision, and from the white foam clawing the bow of the ship beneath them, she appeared to be rushing straight for them.

“Who is she?” Thorn asked as Rafe handed him the glass.

“Have a look.”

Mr. Thorn peered toward the ship. “I can't make her out yet, Captain.”

“Only one ship I know of has crimson sails.”

“Captain Howell.” The first mate lowered the glass. “Isn't he one of Roger Woodes's men? I wonder what he's doing out here.”

“Oui, one of his
laquais,
and he searches for pirates is my guess. Those who did not accept the king's pardon or who have since broken the accord.”

“Then we have nothing to fear from him.” Thorn slammed the glass shut and handed it to Rafe, but not before Rafe heard the slight tremble in his voice.

“I trust no one.” Rafe crammed the spyglass into his baldric. “Ready the guns, but do not run them out. And send the men aloft in case we need to unfurl topsail.”

“Aye, Captain.” The first mate touched his hat, spun on his heel, and marched away.

Within an hour, Rafe could easily make out the schooner
Avenger
crowding every stitch of her red canvas and housing a full tier of guns fore and aft. Captain George Howell stood regally at her helm.

Rafe's gut churned. What did Howell want with him? He glanced upward where the flag of France flapped regally from
LeChampion'
s foremast. There were no hostilities between France and Britain, unless some war had broken out of which he was unaware.

But he didn't have to wait long for an answer as the
Avenger
veered to larboard and ranged up alongside
Le Champion.
One by one gun ports popped open, and the charred muzzles of twelve guns bade him welcome.

A thunderous boom roared across the sky and shook the sea.

Boom!
Grace jerked awake. A colorful pattern blurred in her vision he rubbed her eyes. The pattern came into focus, and she realized it was the upholstered back of the chair she knelt beside. The bulkhead quivered. The planks shook beneath her legs. Her heart seized. She sprang to her feet. Ignoring her dizziness, she bolted for the door. A gun had been fired. That meant an enemy was in sight. And that carried the possibility of her rescue. She darted down the companionway and up the ladder, praying that perhaps her sister Faith had somehow found her.
Oh, Lord, let it be so!

Pushing aside her fear, she rushed across the deck, weaving among the sailors dashing here and there as they obeyed their captain's orders. Gripping the railing, she batted away the smoke and peered toward a two-masted ship bearing down upon them off their larboard bow. Red sails, stark against the blue sky, gorged with wind as they pushed the vessel onward. Her heart sank. 'Twas not her sister Faith's ship, the
Red Siren.
But perhaps the ship's captain might still be noble enough to save her from these villains. She coughed as the dissipating smoke stung her nose.

“Sacre mer, what are you doing? Get below, mademoiselle!” Captain Dubois clutched her arm and dragged her to the companionway hatch.

“Who are they?” Grace could not keep the hope from her voice.

“Ah, you think they are your
sauveteurs,
your champions, eh, mademoiselle?” He raised a brow then released her arm. “Je t'assure, they will not save you. Now get below. I have no time for this.”

“The
Avenger
wishes a parley, Captain,” Mr. Thorn shouted from the quarterdeck.

Swerving away from Grace, Captain Dubois darted to the bulwarks. His men ceased their frantic activities and formed an audience upon the main deck. Grace slunk into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck. She would not allow her fear to send her below when a possible rescue was at hand.

The schooner ranged up alongside them keel to keel within twenty yards, and her captain, a brawny man with a full beard and plumed tricorne hailed them in a powerful voice. “I am Captain Howell of the
Avenger.”

Captain Dubois leapt upon the gunwale and grabbed a backstay for support. “I know who you are, monsieur.” His deep tone full of cheerful insolence held not an ounce of fear. With his tricorne atop his head, his gray coat flapping in the breeze behind him, and the sun glinting off the long rapier at his side, he appeared every bit the pirate he claimed he was not.

“We come with the compliments of Captain Roger Woodes,” the man bellowed, waving his plumed hat through the air, “who bids you to haul down your colors and surrender your ship.”

Coarse chuckles bounded over the sailors, and Grace wondered what they found so amusing. She had heard of Roger Woodes, the ex-pirate turned governor of New Providence—a man who thought nothing of rounding up his one-time colleagues and stringing them upon the scaffold.

“For what reason, monsieur?” Captain Dubois asked.

“For the crime of piracy,” boomed the captain of the
Avenger,
who replaced his hat atop his head and began fingering the hilt of his sword.

Snorts of derision replaced the laughter among the crew, and Mr. Thorn broke away from the agitated mob and retreated toward the starboard side of the ship as if frightened of the altercation. But when his eyes met Grace's, only malevolence brewed within them.

“With my compliments,” Captain Dubois shouted, “you may tell Governor Woodes that I am no pirate and as such, am in no position to surrender anything.” He turned and whispered something to a sailor behind him, sending the man scampering below.

“Most unfortunate, Captain, for I have been instructed to blast you from the sea should you resist.” Howell's laughter bounced over the sapphire waves between them, silencing all within its hearing upon the deck of
Le Champion.

All save Captain Dubois.

“By all means, I beg you to try, monsieur.” Captain Dubois swept his hat out before him, hand on his heart.

Seeing that she only had a few moments before the battle began, Grace rushed to the railing, waving her hands through the air. “Captain Howell! Captain Howell!”

The man halted and squinted in her direction. She continued, “I am a prisoner aboard this ship. I am the daughter of Admiral Westcott. Please save me!”

Instead of the expected look of horror on the captain's face, followed by his quick action to save her from these scoundrels, the man chuckled, put his hands on his waist, and replied, “What is that to me, miss?”

The crews on both ships broke into coarse laughter as Grace's heart sank to the deck. One of the sailors fired a pistol into the air, initiating the battle, and Grace attempted to go below but found her feet would not move—no longer from curiosity, but from pure terror. Instead she uttered a prayer for the souls on both ships, herself included.

Captain Dubois, on the other hand, stormed the deck with all the confidence and courage of a man born to lead, his crew close on his heels awaiting his commands.

“Haul foresheets to the wind!” he bellowed, and seconds later the ship lurched and sped on its way.

A gust of hot air struck Grace, bringing with it the smell of salt and wood and the sweat of the crew as they readied for battle. Managing to pry her shoes loose from the deck, she crept toward the companionway just as the air reverberated with the thunder of guns. Streams of dark gray smoke spurted from the
Avenger'
s hull as the ship sped by their larboard quarter. Grace braced herself for the impact of their broadside. But instead of the jarring crunch of wood, the snap of coiled lines, and the screams of the injured, only hollow splashes met her ears.

“Bring her about, Mr. Thorn!” the captain shouted, planting his hands upon his waist and staring at the enemy as if they were naught but a temporary annoyance.

The ship yawed widely to starboard, and Grace flung herself against the mainmast to keep from tumbling across the deck. She gripped the rough wood. Splinters jabbed her tender skin. Above her, the sails clapped as loud as a cannon blast. Sailors darted around her, some jumping into the ratlines with muskets in hand, others hauling shot to the various guns positioned about the deck. Curses filled the air and took flight on the wind, burning her ears, but the men took no notice of her.

As
Le Champion
veered on her tack, the
Avenger
slipped from Grace's sight. She lifted a silent prayer that the ship had slunk away in cowardice. But no such luck. The threatening red sails appeared again on the horizon like bloated demons flying through the sky. In minutes, the ravenous schooner swooped down upon
Le Champion'
s lee quarter with her rigging full of men and white foam salivating over her bow.

“They hope to board us.” Captain Rafe chuckled. Doffing his coat, he laid it over the capstan and rolled up his sleeves as if he were commencing a day's work. The sash strapped about his waist whipped upon the gleaming metal of his rapier, whose pommel he now gripped with a tight fist.

“Load the swivels,” he shouted. “And arm yourselves with hand grenades, men.”

A furious rumble filled the air, and Grace clapped her hands over her ears. Small shot from the
Avenger'
s swivel guns whistled through
Le Champion'
s shrouds, ripping holes in her canvas and sending the sailors into a frenzy.

Grace threw a hand to her throat to still her chaotic breathing then swept a gaze over the deck for injured men. But she saw none.
Thank You, Lord.

“Strike their rigging only,” the captain ordered.

Before her eyes could locate him, Mr. Thorn shouted, “Fire!” and the air was set aquiver with the roar of guns.

Sooty smoke blasted over Grace, stinging her eyes and nose. She gasped for air, then peered through the haze. The men aboard the
Avenger
staggered back beneath the onslaught and made haste for the stern of their ship. Their captain stood by the helm, spewing a string of unending commands.

The
Avenger
continued on its tack, cruising by
Le Champion,
its occupants scurrying back and forth across the deck like ants upon an upturned anthill.

Rafe nodded to Mr. Thorn, who in turn yelled to a man standing at the entrance to the companionway. “Fire the crossbar!” A second later, a gun exploded in a thunderous
boom
that shook
Le Champion
from truck to keelson. Grace squeezed her eyes shut, fearing the ship would be rent apart by the force.

A massive crunch filled the air, followed by the eerie snap of wood.

A shout of victory ensued, and Grace opened her eyes to see the rigging upon the main and top mizzen sails of the
Avenger
fold into a tangled mass of rope and spar. Without their mainsail, the
Avenger
groped listlessly through the sea. Their captain charged toward the stern as if he would jump the distance between the ships and pummel Captain Dubois to the deck. Instead, all he could do was raise his fist in the air and assault them with his foul mouth. Captain Dubois leapt upon the gunwale and gave a mock bow. “Another time, perhaps, Capitaine.
Mes compliments à
Woodes.” Chuckling, Captain Dubois slipped down to the deck where he was engulfed with cheers from his men.

His white shirt flapped in the breeze. The tanned skin on his chest and neck glistened with sweat in the noonday sun. He ran a hand through his coal-black hair, and his eyes latched upon Grace—dark eyes, flashing from the heat of battle. A shiver ran through her, the cause of which she could not explain. Fear, perhaps? More likely disgust at how easily he resorted to violence.

Tearing her gaze from him, Grace released the mast, ignoring the pain in her hands, and took a tentative step with her trembling legs. Her stomach lurched, and she was thankful the broth had long since digested, or she feared she'd lose it upon the deck. She'd never been in a gun battle. Everything had happened so fast, she hadn't time to consider that she could have been torn to pieces by a twelve-pound ball of metal. But now as relief flooded through her, she began to shake uncontrollably. She made her way to the companionway, hoping to manage a quiet exit, when she saw a gray mound rising out of the sea off their larboard side.

“Sir,” she called to one of the crewmen who was passing by—a young, lanky lad with a braid of brown hair hanging halfway down his back. He turned to her, surprise and delight brightening his sun-baked face.

“What land is that?” She pointed to the sight on the horizon.

“'Tis the island they call Inagua, miss.”

“It appears so close.”

“A mile or two, aye.” He started to leave.

Grace grabbed his shirt, but quickly released it, not wanting him to think her wanton.

“What is your name?” She attempted a coy smile as a sour taste filled her mouth. How did her sisters feign such coquettish mannerisms?

“Andrew Fletcher, miss.”

Grace leaned closer to him. “Mr. Fletcher, may I ask where we are heading?”

Huzzahs and hurrahs blared from the crew. The young sailor glanced nervously across the deck as if seeking his captain's permission.

Grace wondered if he or any of the crew were aware of the reason she'd been brought on board. “I am a prisoner, Mr. Fletcher. What harm would it do to tell me?”

He faced her and nodded. “We should arrive at Port-de-Paix in two days' time, miss. I'm told we'll anchor there for only a short while before setting sail again.”

“Thank you.” Grace smiled.

He gave her a curious look before being whisked away by his companions who passed around bottles of some vile alcohol in celebration of their victory.

Port-de-Paix? That would mean they'd be anchored close to land. Close enough to swim—or float—to shore. A daring idea began to form in her head.